Daughter of Mars
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: There was a saying that power resides to where men believe it resides and even a woman can cast a very large shadow upon a country. [Discontinued]
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi.**

* * *

" _Glory to Reim!"_

A cacophony of cheers and cries of joy and triumph bellows coming from the men of Reim from both the naval fleet and the sun-baked shores.

In the eve of the first day of autumn is a victory that will be carved all throughout history, written in Tron blood and mounted in a massacre of corpses. The indomitable walls of Tronje has fallen from the hands of the formidable army of Reim after Tronje has abnegated Reim's negotiations and treaty of peace.

Furthermore this is also the beginning of a raw and newfound strength added in Reim's forces, aside from the current use of advanced technology. This advantageous victory is also indebt both to the elite troop of savages from the famed hunting tribe from Cathargo— the Fanalis Corps, spearheaded by Muu Alexius from the aristocratic and illustrious Alexius family—

And a wunderkind born with hair as crimson as blood and a body of a slave girl but with genius belonging amongst great strategists and tacticians.

* * *

 **PRELUDE** || AD ASTRA

* * *

Her revering gaze lingers at them flit by like a flock of golden birds of the light as her ears listen tentatively at the faint flutters of those magnificent beings. She can never fully grasp the faint yet somewhat melodious sounds they make, but it is almost like a whisper, soft and hush and tender. Those tiny, incoherent voices.

These creatures called _rukh_ are just as brilliant and resplendent as the sun.

"Seneca."

She does not move nor tense an inch from his voice for her ears have already heard the sound of his treading and the clanking metal of his armor a few meters away. Albeit she is aware of his arrival, never does she grace him a response or at least a look of acknowledgment. Her eyes are too fixated at the fluttering beings before her soar to the horizon. But maybe to his eyes, he believes that she fancies the portrait of the morn sky and the vast sea below it. After all, no one sees the peculiar things that she has seen.

A large shadow looms at her hunched form and the sound of his strides halt. Strangely, she can almost feel his amiable gaze land on top of her head, just trying to drill through her mind and gouge out her unfathomable musings. That is if he can. "Shouldn't you be celebrating than spending your time here?"

Seneca sighs softly, almost pestered at the thought.

"Too rowdy."

Her voice sounds like a grumble rather than a fit reply. Just the very thought makes him chuckle behind her.

"May I?"

He tilts his head to latch her attention, his wild mane falling past his shoulders like a red curtain. Though she stubbornly remains to ignore his glances she can feel him smiling affably and gesturing his hand to sit at the empty space right next to her. He has always been that genteel sort of man rather than another boorish brute from the militia.

Her shoulders motion a languid shrug. "Go ahead."

As expected, he sits with her on the soft mantle of grass. There is an ample enough of space between them yet she feels his warmth as if he is embracing her and his rukh envelope her wholly, all radiant and welcoming as his nature. This time, she allows herself to peer at him at the corner of her eyes, spotting him gaze in admiration to the brilliant lights of the dawn.

"Muu," she calls him coolly, her back arched and her palm pressed tediously on her cheek. "As much as I appreciate the attention you're giving me, shouldn't _you_ be the one celebrating? Many generals would search for you and praise you at the camp after all."

His eyes, as red as bloodred pomegranates, flick at her direction, and he beams. "I suppose that is true," he says in a light tone, accepting and somewhat smug. "But I owe that success and praise to your brilliant mind. Many people would like to meet the person behind the stratagem, too."

Seneca cocks her brow questioningly at him. "I highly doubt that," is her blunt reply with a glout on her lips. "Although I've managed to voice out my ploy through you, many people would still look down at me despite the merits I've earned. I'll probably dislike the attention I'll receive from them."

No matter how cunning or strong she is, she is still a woman by the end of the day. Women are not supposed to be handling warfare and politics for those are duties meant for men of higher birth. Of course, there are a few exceptions such as the revered priestess and magi of Reim, Lady Scheherezade. But there is also the fact that the blood of the Fanalis flows through her veins, since the Fanalis are seen naught more but slaves lower than plebeians, if not then _beasts_ of the Dark Continent. Her mere existence is simply frowned upon by many.

Muu quips amusedly, "And yet you have a terrible habit of making horrid rumors about yourself. Isn't that stirring attention, Seneca?"

"Bad reputations do make people avoid me."

He graces her an inquisitive brow, but the smile on his mouth remains. A mild sigh rolls out of his lips. "Nonetheless, you have made an extraordinary feat this day," he remarks with a voice riddling with revere and augustness. "Because of your stratagem, you have not only gained the victory and respect from the country but you have also shown the true strength and worth of our brethren."

Although there are no traces of smug delight on her features from his words, upon closer inspection there is some bit of interest that swirls within her twin pools of vermillion. A slight glisten in them. "I suppose so," she admits with another half-hearted shrug. "But, my friend, with every leap of success equals a cumbersome price. While half of the people respect me, most of them coming from our brethren, half of them despise me. I simply find it rather troublesome that I will encounter petty prejudices."

The simper on his lips drops, disappointment apparent in his visage. Even though she is willing to partake battles, ghastly and dreaded for any sane man to stomach, he cannot comprehend the decline that settles in her gaze.

True, most experienced generals still disapprove her worthiness in the battlefield for they have little trust for a greenhorn— a _woman_ , no less. Though knowing Seneca for the past years, he is certain that she is an unyielding woman by nature. "You've reached this far. I don't reckon you as the type to be deterred over such things."

Her brows furrow. "I'm not deterred. I simply find such things annoying to my taste. A bunch of old men bickering over me because they judge my origin and gender sounds pathetic," she replies as if his notion is the most ridiculous thing she has heard this morning. Then she gazes back at the untouched sky. "Although violence is a grisly thing, I can't help but admit that I love the bloodcurdling feeling when I am about to die, just as much as our kin. Fighting has always run deep through our veins."

As her eyes steel collectedly, unmistakable resolution blaze within them like scarlet flames. "To see our brethren rise from the soot and ash, brandishing the strength and will that can par no other, is my true victory. I will make sure to continue making them rise until they have reached the stars and no one will be there to chain them once they are above them and free."

Seneca drags air through her mouth and breathes out sharply.

"I'll prove them all wrong."

The dawn of the morning burst with brilliant colors of crimson, the glow as lovely as the tincture of a dewed rose and as vibrant and fervent as the shade of blood and war.

* * *

 **A/N:** This idea came from the "what ifs" in my mind. Really, Fanalis have been mistreated as slaves their whole lives and is still seen as _slaves_ (to others, _animals_ ) even though they are a very important asset to the military. Sure they follow Muu, but there should be at least one Fanalis out there who bore some anger for the people of Reim who discriminates them and once enslaved them. It's a shame not many people write about the Fanalis, but this fic will be centered around them, delving deeper in their capabilities and tendencies with dark implications.

Another thing is that I've been obsessing about subjects/stories revolving around military, tactics, and political affairs for sometime now, and Rome, being Reim's original concept and a once great empire, really piques my interest. And yet again, unfortunately, Magi doesn't fully elaborate Reim's world (but it is understandable). Though when I make this fic, most of it will be of course based from both Reim and Rome and is simply made-up so meaning— _don_ _'t take it so damn seriously_. I can't guarantee this would be accurate enough or faithful enough to follow the original series since this will be (or possibly not be) **AU**. Another thing, this will have a slow start so you've been warned.

I must warn everyone once again that this will eventually be _Rated M_ in later chapters soon (very soon) because of the gore, violence, and dark and mature themes/concepts in this story. It's about war and Fanalis. I'm sure there would be plenty of it.

As for the tacky title (which I still personally liked), it is based on the main heroine of the story and her relation to war. Mars is the Roman god of war and is affiliated with the color red, which is also the color that ties closely to the Fanalis and their hair.

Lastly, yes. She can see the rukh, even though I'm aware Fanalis cannot see the rukh. It's a part of the plot which you'll know more about in later chapters.

And that ends my very long note (more like, a crazy fan theory and a rant).


	2. Act I: 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi.**

* * *

"These are . . . _graves_ , Sire."

Naevius Albus simply tamps the urge to sigh. "I am not blind, Mintho. Of course, they're graves."

It is the time of _war_ , after all. The age of blood and iron, where men from distant lands and shores can be reckoned as the greatest conquerors and kings and these men that can win the hearts of people clash into each other - their country, their pride - to continuously start a battle to the death until one man succeeds the rest. Most people are like that nowadays, so he believes.

His incisive eyes scrutinize the barren land and the mounds of dirt, likely estimating thirty in all, encompass the area. Word has spread that Reim has seized the northern lands of Cathargo with a treaty for it to become one of its provinces. But knowing Reim's lack of persuasiveness and Cathargo's defiant nature, it is probably done out of force.

 _Bloodshed is the result. Tyranny can one day be the downfall of Reim if they're not careful enough._

Mintho, a man with half the blood of Cathargoan descent and his consultative aide, advises charily, "Sire, we should return back to the inn. The night is approaching and it is best for all of us to not further rile the spirits of the dead in these wastelands."

He frowns at his notion, but complies with a half-hearted shrug, no less. The fetor of corpses is beginning to repulse him. Though the moment they spin their heels behind, his ears hear a faint sound of rustling from a distance. Curiosity taking the best of him, he gestures his aide to halt and scours for the said sound in spite of his aide's protests.

And there, just near another freshly dug grave, is a _child_.

* * *

 **ACT I** || NOSTRA ORSA

* * *

The man before her is obviously a _foreigner_.

And foreigners bring misfortune in their wake, so some people claim.

Foreigners have already taken away so much from this land— pillaged the food rations, ravaged the cities to rubble, and have even slain lives. She can never forget the sight of those men from the north, all armor-clad and ruthless.

This man in particular is no exception.

She regards his head of flaxen locks and those pair of crystalline blue irises for all the people of her village possess sooty-black and mousy hair and equally dark irises. His complexion is a novel sight to her and is paler than most noblewomen's coloring in her village, reminding her of authentic silk.

Indeed, golden-haired and bright-eyed. Like those soldiers.

Yet she does not run away.

She squints her red eyes and easily notices a disparity between him and them. Whilst all those men own roughened features and an attitude that evens the cold of their steel, his countenance is strangely approachable, sometimes almost regal like that of a blue blood, making him somewhat look nowhere near as humble as his attire. His actions are far too graceful than any other awkward peon sauntering about and his brow has apparently shown the signs of a well-bred, educated man, almost lofty due to his tipped chin.

For a moment she ponders if he is an aristocrat. A rather _peculiar_ case of aristocrat.

After all, not many highborn men have any grit to frock themselves with such modest clothing.

Then there is another odd fact that hauls her attention.

"You're not like those bad people."

He raises his fine brow out of interest and asks with luster in his eyes, "What makes you say that?"

She stoically glares at him, squinting her eyes again. "The birds appear to like you."

As expected, his visage is riddled with perplexity and skepticism. All of them always send looks like that to her, thinking she is naught more but a hopeless and demented orphan. But she jibs their thoughts for she firmly believes what she sees and no one can change her convictions about it, even if she is deemed _delirious_. Albeit his stupefied expression, she can notice the pique in his eyes.

"Birds, hm?" he says softly, like a pleasant hum. "And what do these birds do when they meet those bad people?"

She hesitates to respond back. No one has asked about it before. Her chin dips and her gaze lingers at her grimy hands. "They fly away unsteadily. Like they're frightened . . . sometimes, they murmur of bad omen."

Another dose of confusion is present in his face and an equal amount of interest is in his eyes. Hm, she ponders if he really is curious or if he is just jesting her for the sake of a good laugh. Those radiant birds do not mind his presence at all, so she stays in her spot without any attempt to flee from this foreigner. _Yet_. After all, those birds— those brilliant beings that hold radiance like no other act as her guide in knowing a person she can trust or be wary of.

With a thumb on his chin, he raises his brows and creases his face in a musing sort of expression. She finds it strange that he holds that intellectual air around him instead of the sneering, arrogant mien that most noblemen posses. Then he gazes at her again with a congenial smile on his lips. "Say, this is your doing, isn't it? These graves."

She simply nods.

His smile slightly dwindles into a forced simper. He pries again but his politeness never strays away, "Is this the duty assigned to you?"

She shakes her head in decline.

His blond lashes bat in surprise. Then he begins to mull in deep contemplation once again, probably thunderstruck by her response. His fair features ostensibly disclose his muddle and for a moment she can notice the smallest touch of concern and sympathy on them. Odd. "I know it's not my business to pry any further," he says in a mild, measured tone. "But what would you do this for?"

Silence quells her mouth.

"Because no one would bury them."

His brow arches. His blue eyes are glistening with fervency and patenting his confusion. "You don't owe them anything, yet you still do it?"

Her gaze, deadpan yet somewhat wistful, lands on the newly-dug grave and peers at the cold carcass, festering six feet underneath the ground. Her nose can still latch the pungent stench of decay, blood, and dirt. The scent of death foully reeks to the point that her nose stings painfully by catching a small whiff of it yet she can openly admit that there is nothing alien about it. It clings on her hands, on her clothes, even on the splodge on her chin.

Her life has always been like this, after all. Digging graves.

She sighs somberly.

"Because this is the only thing I can do."

His eyes widen in bewilderment, not expecting the blow of her reply to his chest. Pursing his lips, he queries, "Did those birds tell you to do this?"

"No."

She pauses.

She drags the cold, evening air through her mouth.

Her small hands clench into fists.

"I wanted to."

Much to her surprise, he nears her, his movements aplomb and careful to not frighten her, and crouches before her with a bent knee, meeting the level of her eyes. A beam curls his lips and a certain lightness lingers in his gaze. There is something genuine and heartening in those twin pools of marvelous cerulean that kindles something in her chest. Like a flame from a furnace or a gentle caress of light from the sun. Ah. Warmth, is it?

Those enchanting birds around him flutter and shine a brilliant glow. With the lilt of his voice purposely inspiring the dampened spirit of her heart, he encourages without reservation, "You're a Fanalis, yes? There are plenty of things that you can do than just bury graves— than any other person in this earth, actually. You might not see it now but there is a potential in you that could change your fate. You are worth more than just this."

Her eyes pulse wide from his words.

She muffles a gasp.

Then she blinks.

No stranger or foreigner has ever spoken such words to her. From the little knowledge she has gained from slandering tongues, they dub her a _Fanalis_ and a Fanalis is a denigrating term for slave. Lowest will always be _beast_. Instead of holding grudges, she has learned to accept it, no less. After all, she cannot simply change their views and what more can she do?

She is just a child who prioritizes her basic needs other than anything else. Eat to not starve. Clothe to be warmed. Strive to live another day.

Worthy? She is not worthy. Not when her hands are blackened with the filth from a corpse and she is naught more but an outcast to society. She is no different from any other flawed being of this earth after all.

Yet this man . . .

 _I have . . . potential . . . I am worth more . . ._

She prefers to discard his words.

Though admittedly, to hear such things bubbles a very pleasant feeling in her chest.

But something bothers her at that moment.

Although she wishes to convey the thousands of thoughts that her head has mustered through her own tongue, she remains silent in the depths of her reverie and dully remarks, "You're odd."

He blinks and then asks curiously, "You think so?"

Undeterred, she ripostes, "I know so. Nobles here don't like getting themselves near riffraff or at least saying those kinds of words to one."

"Noble?" he repeats in a convincing, pondering tone. "You think I am a nobleman? You are mistaken, little girl. Although I find it quite flattering, I am not one."

The birds around him slightly tense. She throws an unconvinced look at his direction. "Although I did not mistake you as a bad person, I did not think you were a liar too."

His bright eyes slightly broaden, both in surprise and a tad bit of awestruck. Impressed might be a fitting word for it.

He questions— more like tests her. "Then what do you think of me?"

"A noble and a good liar."

This time, a simper perks his lips, nearly breaking into a laugh, but not a sound or word leaves from it.

Yet she is perceptive enough to understand that his smile is meant to say—

 _Close enough_.

Crossing his arms, he glances above and once again darts his gaze at her. "Nightfall is approaching and you don't seem to have a place where you could lodge at this hour. How about I invite you for supper? You look famished and exhausted. We could converse that matter there," he offers generously with otherwise words from the mouth of a highborn nobleman as he stands. "Fear not, I have no intention of harming or bringing trouble for you."

As enticing as the bargain sounds, she is no fool to be gulled so easily, especially from a very smooth-spoken foreigner.

But those enigmatic creatures of the light do not lie. They never have.

And so she accepts his invitation.

 _As long as I could eat something too._

* * *

"How discourteous of me to not introduce myself," Naevius says with excellent social grace and a charming smile on his lips. "My name is Naevius Albus. I dislike imposing titles so you could simply address me Naevius, if you wish. What would be yours?"

The girl blinks and lowers her head not out of coyness but something so near to shock and realization. A painful realization. Her eyes, slanted with exoticism and rounded childishly, holds a certain unfathomable expression within them that even as perceptive as he cannot decipher. It is blank and bleak with the faintest trace of surprise. Cryptic, little girl.

"I . . . don't have one."

Doubt riddles his sharp features though the look in her face is evident enough that she speaks the truth. She truly has no inkling of anything. No name, no fire of life in her eyes, not even a single purpose to strive for.

The only account of her origins that he has gained from her so far is that she is naught more but an indweller from the wastelands of Cathargo, embedded with a common and prosaic characteristic all humans possess: to _survive_.

The girl does nothing but survive— or simply _exist_. But has not done anything to _live_.

He smoothly asks— more like assumes, "Could it be perhaps that you don't remember it?" _Surely, from a past inconvenience._

Shaking her head of crimson hair, she gives him a simple, "No," then her glance averts to her side. "I don't have one."

In his silence, he muses to himself how such an innocent child face these stark realities in her entire life with a face as hard and dull as stone.

And as swift as the passing gale, a conclusion finally strikes him.

It is not ignorance that limits her to feel the most poignant emotions of distress and confusion.

 _Aloof_ , he thinks. She is far too aloof to care or to understand.

And has yet to scour for a worthy reason to live for.

Well, that is naught more but an assumption, at least. The closest he will ever get, knowing the girl is one of those rare cases he deems as a conundrum.

* * *

Mintho gapes at the mind-boggling sight before him.

Although there is nothing truly nonplussing in seeing the presence of a mere child, this little chit proves to be the exception amongst the rest. Her profile is of a filthy, malnourished orphan which most see skirting around the streets, but beneath the sallow condition and the grime is the distinguishable crimson hair, the perfect shade that can rivet the attention of avaricious eyes, and the bloodred eyes, designed feral and undoubtingly _rare_. Without a doubt, he can confirm what this child is.

Still peeping at her savagely gobble her supper from the gap of the door, he states in a transfixed stupor, "That is a Fanalis child . . . "

This time, Naevius sighs in vexation right next to him.

"Mintho," the firm tone he uses is one best for rebuking. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in disapproval. "I suggest you cease that habit of uttering platitudes. It's starting to become rather annoying."

Disregarding his word of advice, he silently closes the door and directly voices out the loud, frantic thoughts that alarms his too high-strung mind, "Sire, you cannot just claim a _Fanalis_ _child_! She might be a runaway slave from a nobleman or a property from the slave traders!"

Unaffected of his berating, he simply graces him an inquisitive brow. "You seem opposed to the idea of letting me feed a starving child."

The aide nearly croaks from his reply, daunted from the skeptic glare in his eyes. He decides that it is best to not oppose him further. "S-Sire, it's not like that," he stutters, opting the choice to reconcile and reason his thoughts evenly. "As your aide and companion, what I simply mean to convey to you is that it is better that we do not encounter any trouble in these parts. It might stir the attention of the people when they discover your true identity."

Naevius Albus, at least before he changed his name, is a man of exceptionality and an irreplaceable figure. Some dare slander him as an absolute eccentric, a cynical aristocrat from the court, and an unrestrained vagabond. Yet albeit his vices, what compensated for each sniff of disdain is his skill in the battlefield and his genius in warfare and strategy. Naevius— no, Julius Naevius Alexius, nephew of Ignatius Alexius, is an asset to the heart of the forces of Reim and its military success.

Just the very thought of the vindictive people of Cathargo recognizing his name spirals him in a bout of anxiety.

His uncle will certainly be restless about the matter. So will Reim.

He sighs softly. "Do not underestimate my wariness. I am fully aware about it, Mintho. After all, I wanted to see the state of this country and am careful enough to do so," he reiterates. "She claimed to have no origins or an inkling to where she came from no matter how many times I questioned her. She does not even know what a Fanalis is. The only recollection she has was living in a small village near those wastelands, but that was all there is to it."

"All right," he says but doubt is still stubbornly stemmed in his mind. "What do you plan to do to her then?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure," his master admits, slightly troubled at the notion. "She has no place to call home and I cannot simply leave her anywhere. She might arouse attention just by her identity. To be honest, I find it rather miraculous that she has not been a slave or is hunted down by the slave traders yet."

Mintho can only conclude that whatever luck that child possesses to this point is certainly _baffling_.

Many street children near her age have either undergone the perils of being a slave since birth or taken away against their will. Most have even _died_ young.

And a Fanalis is destined to face the harsh, inevitable fate of slavery since their youth.

Nodding, he cups his chin with a thumb. "I suppose it may be difficult to find refuge for the girl."

"In the morning, I'll try to think of a better place for her to take refuge in," he says in a confident, sophisticated tone, one which means that he is set to fulfill such task. "As of now, she will stay here. Fed and groomed with a new set of clothes."

Sedate words, yet they hold absolute authority. A quality which a kin from the Alexius family posses. Albeit his voice is finely even and deliberate, the aide understands that it is a direct _order_ and one that is best unquestioned. He dips his head and gives him a consentient nod. "You're far too kind, Sire," he remarks yet his mind still bears its reluctance to comply to his _unstinting_ decision. "All these graces for a Fanalis child."

Without hesitation, Naevius confesses, "The Fanalis always have my sympathy."

His dark eyes slightly broaden from his response and simply nods again. If he can recall, he has cousins that both share the noble lineage of an Alexius and the impure blood of a Fanalis. His benignity must have been rooted to such relatives. Especially, their mother. Although some part of him wishes to mention that conception of his, he tamps the urge to broach the subject and quells himself in silent agreement instead.

For the sake of dismissing their previous conversation, he retrieves back a memorandum and states, "Ah, I wish to inform you that I have received a letter from a messenger an hour ago."

His brow curves. "A messenger? From whom?"

Letting his memories rekindle, he clears his throat. "The messenger stated no name for himself and addressed this letter specifically to you. He was a suspicious character but his features were fairly Reiman from my observation. As for the letter, it . . . bears the emblem of the Alexius family."

"Ah, it is probably from my uncle," he remarks sardonically with a chafed huff. "What is written in it?"

Reluctant, he finally replies, "Your return back to Remano."

Ah, and there Naevius Albus cannot even screen the displeasure upon his bearings with a mask of calm. His lips bitterly twist in disdain. His brows scrunch. Just the mere sight of those crystalline blue eyes, shadowed with the dark hazes of contempt, sends unpleasant chills down his spine. He will admit that he may be a fetching man, but the scowl he wears simply gives him the portrait of hideous, cynical, and brooding.

Mintho does not mind playing the role of the interloper— intruding his personal affairs and justifying them to appease his pique. Yet he relinquishes the position aside for now, preferring the choice to let him reconcile in his own self-recollections. After all, sometimes silence is the best confidant, especially to one who has such volatile emotions. It is a matter he cannot meddle. His master's discordant relationship with his uncle.

Letting his temper subside, he sighs sharply and collects himself. "Is that so?"

He coughed. "Y-yes, Sire."

"Is there anything else?"

"Ah . . . w-well, Lord Ignatius has written to you an offer for you to educate one of the Emperor's closest relatives."

"Ah, I see. So first, I am a strategist, and now he expects me to mentor a brat."

"Sire, I must advise you that you should not cloud your judgment with ire and do consider this gracious offer. You are also a scholar, a sage philosopher. The child might be . . . excessively _pampered_ . . . but it is a high privilege to mentor a kin from the Emperor himself."

"Indeed, and acting like a hound for the sovereign, like any other dogging nobleman, will redeem my dignity as an aristocrat, yes?"

" _Sire_ —"

"Give it a rest, Mintho. I have no interest nor am I willing to accept that offer."

The aide sighs in resignation— mostly, in disappointment.

"If that is your final word for it."

His master simply bobs his head in acknowledgment, likely pleased of his response. "Moreover, I'd like to discuss about the girl's sleeping accommodations. It would be best if she is to rest in this inn for the night."

Ah. The Fanalis child. "Shall I rent a room for the girl? Though, I believe there would be—"

Cutting his sentence short, he abruptly answers, "No. For the time being, you should offer her your room. Your bed, specifically. That should be enough, yes?"

He nearly sputters. Or worse, hollers out his protest. As he clears his throat, he asks although he can still taste his disapproval lingering in his tongue, "B-but, Sire, where will I sleep?"

Nonchalant of the matter, he graces him a shrug. "I don't know."

"That isn't—"

"Oh, hush," is his reply. "The child can hear that tone of yours."

"Wait— she can?"

"Of course, she can."

"Oh . . . so she can."

"Such a crude role model. Inspiring children to follow the path of uncouthness."

"But, that—"

Naevius releases a sigh from his lips, which is soon followed by a soft chuckle. A larking grin lights his handsome features. "I am simply jesting, Mintho," he enunciates, mollifying his aide's bewilderment and fraught. "Really now, you need to find your calm. Racking your nerves for so little things is not good for you."

Mintho's face is inflamed with a flush from fluster and a tad bit of indignation.

"The girl shall have my room for this night."

Pardoning his master's rather juvenile chaffing, he queries in concern, "But, Sire, where will you sleep?"

"I do not believe I could retire at the moment," he says coolly, his mind slightly immersed in the recesses of his musings. "I have my own errands to attend to."

He graces another question for confirmation, "Shall I give a letter of response to the Alexius family?"

"No," he utters in a low, miffed tone. "As for that letter, burn it. Dispose of it. Just cast it away from my sight."

He blinks in flabbergast and wearily counsels, "Sire, shouldn't it be wise that you give them a letter of response?"

Shaking his head in objection, his bright eyes steel in resolution. "I've made the last one clear to my uncle," he veers his glance away, uttering a heavy sigh after. "I don't plan to return as of yet."

* * *

Naevius is perched upon his chair, his eyes carefully skimming the scroll held by his hands. Nourishing his mind with newfound knowledge has been an old hobby of his and entertaining himself with his leisure in the comfort of his study is what he has thought of as a pleasure of sorts. At least, for the curious mind.

Reading the bold, black calligraphy on the paper, he halts and stifles a yawn.

Cathargo— the Dark Continent, so they say.

All those bruits of Cathargo having no culture or civilization is certainly _wrong_.

How can those fools claim such asinine drivel when they have not even seen a partially unexplored country?

His grandfather, a great conqueror in his prime and a broad-minded explorer, is the man who defiantly cast aside the words of age-old rumors for he once has seized the opportunity to explore the place they called, 'The Dark Continent'. And because he has incited this action, Reim has once again found more land to reap the benefit for their own— all because of his thirst for conquest and knowledge.

He eyes the aged scroll upon his hands which is the fruit of his grandfather's endeavors. It does not exactly supply everything that must be learned about Cathargo, but it still provides a few important details that can be put in consideration. One of which will be the country is divided into two regions: Northern Cathargo and Southern Cathargo.

In Northern Cathargo, unlike its larger, lower half, people inhabit the land, nearest to the shores than the flat, arid grounds of the savanna, and have cultivated success through trade and a growing web of connections from foreign, inconspicuous countries. Its strategic location has also been a lay station for foreign traders for resupplying and repairing ships from harsh voyages. Although the origin of the Carthagoan people do not root from the country itself since their ancestors are no more but foreign immigrants, they are seasoned merchants, if not born with a natural gift for commerce, no less.

From the past memories of his adolescence, he recalls that it is a marvelous place, where the cities are swarmed with grandiloquent architecture of citadels, pantheons, and houses, paved with mosaic floors and decked with gardens, and the streets are enlivened by the cacophony of the people from the bazaars, further accentuating the flourishing affluence of the wellbeing of the country. In the day the land is bathed in sunlight while nightfall cools it down with mellow breezes from the sea. Truly, a splendid place.

Shame, it _was_ before waging war to Reim.

The rise of economic success and expansion of land has led Reim to respond, considering Northern Cathargo as a potential threat.

And like any other country conquered by Reim, it is deflowered from its previous sublimity. A place now palled with ruins and robbed dignity and malicious will.

With a soft sigh, Naevius continues to read the second half of the entry.

Though, any informative account for Southern Cathargo has truly been as scarce as hen's teeth. It does not exactly strike him as a savage region or the netherworld, like what the people rumor of it. Although he will admit that the Great Rift certainly fits the description of the latter. Nevertheless, it is naught more but a vast land— vapid, isolated, and dearth of any salient civilizations with the exception of the Torran people— and the legendary hunting tribe, the Fanalis.

 _Fanalis . . ._

Harsh cracks of whips against backs, brands seared upon flesh, and a life of enslavement and denigration.

And then . . . crimson eyes that hold undoubtable warmth and affection.

Eyes that do not deserve to witness such morbid fate.

"The birds look depressed around you."

It takes him a second to realize that someone has thankfully liberated him from his sentimental woolgathering. And _unforgivably_ interrupted him in his favored pastime.

Frowning, he flicks his sharp gaze at the little meddler with a swift crane of his neck.

To his vexation, her crimson eyes are void of any of the emotions that contradicts his theorized outcome. She is perched upon a tall stool with a large book on top of her lap, her profile still possessing that aura of boredom and vapidness. Brazenly enough, she flips a few pages of the said book without his approval as her gaze lingers upon the pages as if she truly is reading each word with unquestionable concentration. There is a certain glint in those eyes that makes him wonder. Ah, a twinkle of curiosity.

Nonetheless, no one disrupts him in his study. Not even a child.

He clears his throat, purposely snatching her attention, yet it will appear she is still apathetic from both his intolerance and grievance. "Little girl, why are you here in this late hour?" he questions in a carefully practiced tone only to grapple the urge of sullying her ears with his wicked tongue.

Flipping another page, she responds, "Couldn't sleep."

He retorts, "Sleep again."

"I did."

He sighs.

 _How did she even get in here?_ This room is only reserved for him. He even doubles his pay to the innkeeper for having at least one secluded place for himself, since his sleeping quarters has such cramped space - in his opinion - and is frankly uncomfortable.

As he is about to throw another question, she interrupts him through silently pointing at the door, its lock breached and the entrance slightly gaping, as if she has read his mind. How she even manages to let herself inside - specifically through breaking the door in the process - truly astounds and equally dumbfounds him, knowing he does not even hear or notice any sound of her stepping inside here in the first place.

 _Sneaky chit_. Wishing to put an end to this mishap of a meeting, he then tells her, "You found me. Is there something you need?"

"Nothing in particular."

His brow quirks ever so slightly. "You know how to read?"

The little meddler languidly flips another page. "I could only understand . . . a little."

 _Really?_ Well, it is quite evident enough that she is struggling to try. "Are you interested in reading then?"

She shrugs.

Naevius sighs once again. This time, lengthy and peeved.

He is in no position humoring the paltry whims of an insomniac orphan.

He might consider having a word with his aide about fine-tuning his monitoring skills regarding this night's mischance and a rather painfully long reprimand for the sake of being disrupted in his precious pastime.

A goal is finally set on his mind. One that he is willing to strive for. As he departs the comfort of his seat, he marches forth towards the girl with an air of coolheadedness. Without reservation, he abruptly shuts the book before her and withdraws it from her reach, placing it in a nearby drawer. Of course, he is fully aware that it is most discourteous to behave such, especially when he is more inclined in engaging in his cultivated habits, though unfortunately for her, he strongly believes in a tit for tat.

Ushering her to hop off the stool, he then leads her to his stride. "Well then, off you go now," he bids hastily, directing her to the door. "You're weary. Get some rest."

Balking her movements, she comments solely based from scrutiny, "But you won't also go to sleep."

"That is because I have matters to attend to."

"And because I took your bed."

Such a loquacious mouth. "Well, take the opportunity to sleep on it," he ripostes, hoping for this dilemma to conclude soon. "I don't plan to retire now if that is what you are concerned about."

She stares at him and deadpans, "I'm not concerned about that, Navi."

He halts.

He pacifies his temper at bay.

He is a respectably placid-mannered intellectual, a very patient man.

And he will **not** lose his composure because of a child.

No, rather, an impudent _brat_.

"Little girl," he utters in his gentlest voice yet each syllable bears venom, heavily glossed over with refined gentility. "Even if I allowed you to address me with my name, it would not mean that you call me with . . . such unimaginative pet names."

"You only said you don't like titles," she cites his words from their past introduction and for a moment he can spot that luster of what appears to be amusement in those aloof, childish eyes. "You didn't say that I shouldn't call you with pet names, Navi."

"My, what a sly tongue you possess," he remarks with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "I will not tolerate that sort of insolence under my roof."

"Your name is too long."

"I care not," Naevius carps sternly, his brows furrowing and his frown sinking further into a scowl.

The best response he attains is a raised brow, stubborn and every bit as opposing as she is.

Folding his arms out of annoyance, he glares back reproachfully. "Let us hear your name and see what you will feel if you are given such unfitting pet name."

Instead of another quip, her mouth is silent and sewn shut. She murmurs under her breath, "I have no name."

His eyes widen from her reply, both in realization and a tad bit of guilt. How can he forget such a small, significant fact? "Ah, right," he clears his throat awkwardly, imposing to act mature and accepting of his blunder. "Excuse my behavior for disregarding such a . . . personal matter."

Much to his surprise and relief, she does not even shed a tear. Then again, she appears nonchalant about it. Lightly scratching the top of her scalp, she reiterates bluntly, "I don't really mind," she graces him a half-hearted shrug. "Names don't matter that much."

His brow arches critically. "Would you prefer I call you 'brat' than a name of your own?"

The Fanalis child blinks, unable to think of a better retort that can defend her opinion.

Releasing a sigh of defeat, she mutters relentingly, "Maybe, it does matter a little."

Mirth perks a smile upon the corners of his lips for she can no longer contest back. "Names do matter, little one. Most of the time they ingrain your identity to another. Sometimes they hold a certain power to people," he voices his opinion, imparting that golden piece of knowledge to her ignorant mind. He darts his gaze back at her and yet again their is that expression he cannot fathom. For a moment he cannot tell if she truly grasped his words or is simply ruminating over them.

He sighs inwardly. Maybe one day, he should mend that pallid face of hers into one that is teeming with vivid, animated emotions.

Buoying up the mood of their conversation, he suggests, "Say, do you wish to have a name?"

Her crimson eyes pulse wide.

She twiddles her thumbs.

"I've never really given it much thought . . ."

Naevius goads, "Well, it is still better than being referred to as 'brat', is it not?"

"Mhmm," she nods, musing in consideration. "I heard mothers are supposed to name their child. I don't remember any mother. Maybe, I don't have one . . . wouldn't that mean I can't have a name?"

He tosses her a look of disbelief, eliciting his disagreement in her notion yet at the same time discouraging her to broach that sort of gibberish in future gabbles. "Ridiculous. It is true that a mother is given the right to name her child but that would not mean that you cannot give yourself one," he reasons. "Well, now that you are enlightened, you could name yourself. I won't do it for you. After all, it is _your_ name and you certainly have the right to do so."

Contrary to his previous endeavors of casting her away from his study, he offers her the stool she once sat at, knowing this conversation might just be longer than he anticipated, but she respectfully denies and sits cross-legged on the wooden floor instead. He raises a brow. Odd chit. With a shrug, he perches himself on the said stool. "What would you like to be called then?"

"Hmm . . . "

"How about Laelia?"

She shakes her head.

"No?" he says. "Camilla?"

She shakes her head again.

"Well, there is Cassia or Aquila— then again, all of those are Reiman names," he states, cupping his chin. "Would you prefer Cathargoan names?"

"Seneca."

"There is Astarte— what was that?"

Flicking his gaze back at her, he cannot help but scrutinize in wonder her sudden shift in behavior at present. That stone-faced girl, that little meddler, discloses the slightest whits of curiosity and blithe and the most prominent traces of want. Something which a child of her age should express openly. Something which she has not executed thus far. She rubbernecks the book he has taken away from her reach and marvels at the sight as if rekindling a wondrous memory.

And that large, weather-beaten book is not a literary work, but a journal of old adventures and experiences. It is from his grandfather.

In those derring-do stories of his, most people do not call him Lord Alexius. Oh no, they rave him as, _Seneca, the Navigator_.

So she truly is reading that time ago. But . . .

 _Seneca._ That _name?_

More determined, she repeats, "Seneca."

Arching a fine brow, he begins to contemplate about her favored name yet the creases in his visage mark his final thought of the matter. "Seneca, hm? I don't believe it would fit you," he jibs insouciantly, enervating what should have been the exuberant, accepting episode from her expectations. "It is a name well suited for a boy."

For a moment he ponders if this child has lack of taste in choosing names.

"I don't mind," she tells him frankly. "I like that name."

"Are you content of that name?"

She nods.

"Well, that is your choice," he says yet his mind still disapproves that choice of hers. "Seneca, it is."

As she rises through her feet with a mild stretch and a pat to her garb, he stands alongside her, pads at her direction, and pats her shoulder with a gleeful simper on his lips. Though upon closer inspection, it is not a gratulatory simper but more of an elated grin of triumph. Of course, possessing a name of her own is truly a momentous event for her yet there is no other bliss in this world than to finally be done with this small mishap. Specifically meaning, he will finally engage back to his previous activities. This time, no interruptions.

His hand glides to her back and he ushers her once again to the door. Fortunately, the girl submits to him without protest or quip. "Congratulations. Now, go to sleep. Children need their sleep, no?" he maunders and successfully places her outside of his room. "You're interrupting my study and I'd like my own company for this night."

She blinks probably from the sudden change of events. Then she looks up at him.

Much to his surprise, she does not shoot him another witty retort.

A small, genuine smile curls her lips. "Thank you, Navi."

His bright eyes slightly broaden but soften after. He smiles. "Your welcome," he replies. "Seneca."


	3. Act I: 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi**

* * *

 **A/N:** I was not entirely satisfied with this chapter because of the scene between Naevius and Scheherezade is too confusing, thus I had to rewrite that particular scene. I'm sorry for the inconvenience but that's the only thing I changed so far. It's your choice to read it but coming from me, it's a crucial part of the plot as the story progresses.

 **Time skip: three years**

 **Edited: 4/16/16**

* * *

"I'd admit you're pretty good at this, kid."

Cutting through the silence, a dagger is jabbed on the table before her, stainless steel gleaming from the lamp light. Gingerly curling her fingers on its hilt, Seneca plucks her prize effortlessly though she quickly notices the small grudge of her opponent, in a form of a deep crevice marred on the table, and flippantly shrugs it off. Well, she is the victor from their fair contention through a game of dice.

Scrutinizing the dagger, she trails her glance at the blade's single polished edge, curving slightly from the root of its grip to its tip. Complex runes, likely ritualistic, engrave the sterling steel while its hilt is crafted in silver and gold and decorated with intricate patterns. She flicks it and then marvels at the sight, an impressed smile curling her lips.

A sheath, encrusted in expensive metals, is swiped at her direction, which she catches in a nick of time. "Just as promised, an authentic Sasanian dagger for my loss," a voice, solemn and dignified, perks her ears. "The blade is sharp to the touch. Can cut without too much effort forced upon it. It's lighter than it looks though I assume that fact does not concern you."

She finally settles her gaze at the speaker, her opponent, inevitably noticing the red-tinted ivories jutting out of the said opponent's mask. "Sasan, hm? I heard that they have talented metalworkers, if not the best," she brandishes the dagger, recognizing the runes having similar characters from Torran script, and leans lazily on her chair. "Say, Yotanwa, have you been to Sasan?"

The bell beneath her mask tinkles. Pulling the mask from her face, a youthful woman of oriental origin graces a simper. "Unfortunately no," Yotanwa shakes her head, her whorl of thick mane flourishing. "The Yambala may be nomads but Sasan offers little cordiality to pagans of their religion, even more so to an ethnic race."

"Oh, I've heard about that from Navi," she remarks, sheathing back the dagger. "Nonetheless, I still find the country intriguing."

Dark eyes, rumored to have the sight of a seer, observe her actions out of curiosity. "If you don't mind me asking, what do you plan for it?"

"Well, I do have a habit of collecting rarities like this," she shrugs and stuffs the dagger in her satchel. "For keepsakes, I guess."

"Spoiled brat," Yotanwa comments teasingly, making her grin in response. "I could see the strategist taught you well in . . . gambling. He used to be very good at it albeit how he considers it to be rather boorish nowadays."

Pursing her lips, she suppresses a laugh. "He still hates it," she confirms. "But I've managed to learn something from him, no less."

"Ah, Yotanwa," a voice, deep and mirthful, rivets their attention, yet both their reactions are apparently neutral and not the slightest bit curious. Peering from the table, she flicks her glance on the approaching figure— particularly focusing on the iconically stand out thick brows and mustache. The large build and proud gait of a warrior do little to latch her pique, knowing that she has grown rather tedious at the identical facets she has observed beforehand. Shambal Ramal just so happens to only be an exception due to those unique distinctions _and_ his perpetual loses in gambling.

Clamping his hand on his fellow clanswoman and only daughter's shoulder, Shambal Ramal rubbernecks at them. "I see you've met— oh, you have lost to her as well, eh?" he said, the scrambled dice hinting him the idea.

Sighing hotly, Yotanwa mutters under her breath, "I lost my good dagger."

He chuckles and then strokes his bristly chin. "Such curious luck," he states aloud, half in wonder, half in deep thought. "Not having to lose in a game of dice with most of the gladiators here, even from my undefeated daughter. I'm quite envious. I wish I had that luck of yours."

"There's no such thing, really," she shrugs insouciantly, disliking the subject of _luck_ all together. Luck is no more but a delusion in the frail mind and it most certainly is not the one that brings her success, whether it may be her winnings or escapades. In all honesty, heavily relying in her intuition and prudence at matters has always been her strongest suit. A child she may be, but unlike a foolish one she would never ignorantly engage in losing battles. "But I suppose I might have just found gambling an . . . interesting sport."

Yotanwa raises her brow and a challenging simper twists her lips, provoking her, shaking her thoughts— even _better_ , testing her wits. "Shouldn't children your age know to be inclined in more sound games than having to participate in base ones?"

Seneca smiles, blithe and impish. "You could say I simply have a different definition of fun."

To her delight, she spots the slightest twitch in her lips.

Hopping off the tall chair which she openly detests for making her bum sore, she pats her knee-length tunic and cloak and covers her locks of red hair with her hood. Before departing, Shambal Ramal's words and somewhat disappointed tone catch her attention. "Leaving so soon, Seneca?" he queries. "Aren't you going to wait till Muu Alexius fetches you?"

That fetching part is for another tale to tell.

"He'll be fine," she says with a grin, an amusing thought occupying in her mind. "Frankly, I'd like to gamble a bit more but I'd like to see the city for today."

* * *

"Stand up."

A string of salt trickles from his brow and he falters the futile attempt to cease swallowing his quick gasps for air from his mouth.

Muu understands the man before him is no longer the amiable cousin he dueled swords with for sport in the past, but his _mentor_. His _strict_ mentor, he corrects.

Even an important event such as Equirria is no excuse to him to end their sparring sessions.

As he glances at the proud figure of his cousin, a thought has crawled into his mind. There has always been something peculiar about him that made him stood out from the rest. One that bears the blood of an Alexius is reckoned to have the profile of a daunting figure with peerless skill that can out best the greatest warriors of distant lands.

Many of his kin has undergone the honor of holding the high position of a general from the military while some proudly takes the position of being a cavalryman. Outside the battlefield, they are blue bloods from the court with power that can influence politics and the people at the bottom of their hands. Illustrious men bringing honor and dignity to their names. An expectation of sorts.

The most far-famed of them all is his Uncle Ignatius and his eldest cousin, Augustus, both formidable and ruthless warriors from the battlefield and respected noblemen from the senate.

And then there is also Naevius, who is a man of exception.

His cousin manifestly has no profile of the fierce attributes of an Alexius. Instead of intimidating, his mien is strangely erudite. He can pass off as a philosopher or scholar barring himself within the confines of the librarium. Unlike most of their relatives, there is not even a whit of ambition in his blood or a damn about everything else in particular with the exception of his travels and academic pursuits.

Muu has never truly understood his zeal from tedious texts but even more so when he, a man who has no motivations, is so inclined and wise in dealing strategy from the battlefield. His military genius is outstanding yet all of it is not done for the sake of gaining pride or fame or gold, not even for the Emperor or the Magi of Reim, but for purposes that even he cannot comprehend and likely never know.

Though Naevius is not a man that should be taken too lightly. Even with a lean frame, he can easily cut a man into ribbons. He _is_ skilled in martial arts, just painfully unmotivated. There is, too, a certain intensity in his bright eyes that can make men cower that can make one consider that he is indeed an _Alexius_.

Although he still finds him inscrutable and peculiar at best, Muu truly does awe and respect him.

"Stand up, Muu. Don't make me repeat myself."

Well, most of the time.

He shakily rises from his feet, galumphing from every effort to do so. He clears his throat twice, resisting both a coughing fit that might soon erupt and the thirst from his throat. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. He continues to chant the word in a loop. Tauting his strained muscles, he steadies himself and grapples his sword with a modest amount of force to not break the grip. Like the last time.

His eyes close for a brief moment.

Breathe.

 _Don't get tense._

Breathe.

 _Fight. Focus._

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

" _You try too hard, you know that?"_

He blinks from his spiel.

"Focus, Muu."

A flash of metal glints at his direction. Out of instinct, he hastily draws out his sword, shielding a blow from his front. Naevius slides his sword, making both metal screech, and lungs at him again. Muu leaps back, recoils, and charges on. He was fast in his jabs, attacking from front, side, front— then a quick block. They come at each other, swords crossed and suspended. He is slowly gaining the upper hand, managing to skid his heels back—

But Naevius lurches forward, rebounding him with a strong push. Just as strained as he, he remains composed, eyes calculated and vicious. Not even succumbing to fatigue. He is not born a Fanalis though his speed and strength are not meant be underestimated. His strike comes at him like lightning and Muu dodges minutely, avoiding the blow of his steel. He pays no heed to the large gash on his armor.

He regains his footing, thrusting at him. He catches his breath. "Where is Seneca?"

Naevius blocks his shallow jab and slashes back, metal meeting metal in collision. "Frankly, I do not know myself—" he parries a blow through a sidestep, clicking his tongue. "— she always disappears in a whim."

Muu isn't surprised if he manages to shrug in spite of his constant cutting.

Their swordplay veers them across the room. Yet the question delays longer in his mind before he can ever brush it aside completely with cold steel. Knowing her personally, she must have been loitering around the undergrounds of the Colosseum, trespassing through security, and gambling with a handful of men for bragging purposes. She hardly gets on their good side, saved for a tolerant few. In addition, she has that particular habit in starting trouble or either dragging herself into one. A penchant of hers or not, that venturous streak is not the slightest bit charming.

And for some unfairly absurd reason, she manages to slip away without risking too much.

This fickle girl happens to be his cousin's pupil. And a Fanalis.

He sighs.

A vision of a pair of crimson eyes flashes in his mind and they are scrutinizing and taunting and curious. Her legs are swaying blithely. Then a mischievous smirk.

" _You try too hard, you know that?"_

He springs forward and swings his sword—

Retaliating from the attack, Naevius is smiling. _Smiling_. And it is frighteningly amused. "Cute, cousin. Allowing those tidbits of affection distract you but now is not the time for such, especially when I am teaching you how to spar properly. Ready yourself."

"It's not like that!"

Another clash of metal.

And it concludes with his sword laying on the floor. With a broken hilt.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead and forgetting that misunderstanding earlier as if it is nonexistent, he tells openly, "Mother says you plan to engage in this day's festivities," he ponders at the thought, confirming the answers from the aspects of his bearings. His brow arches curiously. "You are going to watch the chariot races as well?"

His cousin nods. Reluctantly. "Yes."

Odd. If he can recall, he does not exactly favor partaking in festivals or one to revel in them. Furthermore, chariot racing is no exception. "Naevius," he says. "Is it true that you will have an audience with Lady Scheherezade?"

His blue eyes widen in a fraction. "Did your mother tell you this as well?"

"No," he says. "Uncle Ignatius did."

His visage becomes grim and displeased.

"Indeed."

* * *

"Would you like to buy a plum tart, little miss?"

Before her eyes is a tempting set of sweet confections served in a silver platter and the plump woman beams, a smile best for prompting a naive, sugar-craving chit to purchase her merchandise. Seneca breaths in beneath her cloak and confirms that the scent is simply too divine, so close to making her mouth water. She gulps silently, distancing herself from that enticing scent.

Recalling her trained habits, she smiles and waves her hand politely. "No thank you." _Not yet._

The woman's simper slightly wavers but complies to her request and finally bids her another exchange of holiday greetings. Seneca finally releases a sigh and urges herself to swan around the capital. Such things cannot be avoided, after all. Equirria is one of the grand festivals celebrated in Reim, known most for its tournaments in chariot racing. Not that chariot racing is not an exciting spectacle to watch, but she does find pleasure in setting a little adventure of her own.

Though, probably this agenda of hers might also earn her an earful of berating from Mintho— for lack of a better word, her _keeper_.

She sighs. How troublesome. Given, she is young and a tad bit naive in her own right, but that does not affect her precaution. In retrospect, she has evaded trouble in the most complicated hours, slipping pass them like whiffing a fresh breath of air. She deserves some credit for that, at least.

For a moment she lets her gaze wander around and she awes, her toes curling from a spate of wonder. Remano is bursting with life— flowery embellishments and foliage girdling the marble pillars, music and laughter filling her ears, and the delectable scent of delicacies wafting the air. People are swarming about, either spending their time with their peers or relatives or scouring for entertainment in this day's festivities.

Though to her dismay, it is beyond her to encounter a sobbing toddler.

Seneca frowns. There is a certain limit when she keeps up her usual guile to civilians, but to a child is an exception. She can honestly confess that she is utterly terrible in handling children and even more so if she is ever given responsibility for one, which is close to never. However, this case is nothing special and she has no obligations to even look after this stray to begin with.

She readies herself for departure, planning to pass regularly by the streets and abandon this tot behind like any normal, freewheeling twelve-year old. The crying is starting to test her patience and the caprice to take another step forward is growing more inviting than usual. Making up her mind, she then mutes her nagging conscience behind and leaves with nonchalance.

 _I am_ not _going to concern myself over a brat._

She halts.

"You're lost, aren't you?"

And for that, she inwardly groans.

* * *

Naevius meets a living legend before his eyes.

The most memorable recollection he has upon meeting Lady Scheherezade is when he was about sixteen, formally being introduced on the day of his coming of age. On that event he cannot recall what he has found so drawing about her, debating back and forth whether it had been the way she carried herself with effortless elegance and majesty or her ageless countenance from the workings of magic. Eventually, he has tapered off the subject all together, diving to another matter which has equally caught his pique.

And after all those sixteen years, after meeting her once again in the flesh he has finally found his answer. It is sharing the company of another intellectual. However, in this case he is in the presence of a wise, timeless being. Watching the tournament next to her, he feels a startling sense of allay and even expresses enthusiasm in conversation, even before the upsetting presence of his Uncle Ignatius, the old geezer.

Whilst having a curious sense of belonging around the magi, Naevius is not swayed with the sentiment nor will he lower his guard down. Poise and nimble she may be, she is still undoubtingly knowledgeable in the art of guile and persuasion.

A peal of cheers thunders from the audience, their fists raised in excitation. The tournament is coming to an epic conclusion as there are only three more laps and three remaining charioteers, namely from the factions Red, White, and Blue.

From Lady Scheherezade's box, he watches afar at the spectacle. The Green faction, or at least the pile of entrails on the field, is currently being scraped off. He then concludes that is one of the reasons why the people seemed so . . . _ecstatic_. After all, bloodshed, in all its brutal and medieval form, has been the most effective and primeval source of entertainment in Reim. A grimacing truth about his cultured countrymen.

"Are you fond of chariot racing, Lord Naevius?"

He takes a sip of the splendidly aged vintage from his goblet. "Not particularly," he admits. "I suppose the race could be thrilling but I cannot say I am particularly engaged."

She nods in acknowledgment. "I understand," she replies in an empathetic tone. "Admittedly, I too share your sentiments."

It is a rather taxing obligation in having to be a power and symbol for the masses, is what he intends to say yet he quells his tongue before it is ever unleashed. In that stead, he decides to take a different turn. "Though it should not mean that we are to spoil the tournament with our own personal dilemmas. It would be a shame to not at least delight ourselves in these festivities, even more so for the sake of those charioteers who strive to entertain the people, the both of us including," he starts with a pleasing smile. "Shall we make a harmless wager, Lady Scheherezade?"

Hesitant at first, she then looks at him in slight curiosity and addle. "What of this wager?"

He begins to explain, "It does not require anything to stake for of the sort. We only have to bet for a winner amongst those charioteers. If one of us wins, then that person is simply the victor and the reward is no more but the satisfaction of having to gain the title. It is the same if one of us loses."

She takes a brief moment to contemplate. Of course, unfathomable from her placid, unconcerned expression. "Very well then."

"I thank you for humoring me," he says out of genuine politeness. "Then who is your choice?"

"The Blue faction," is her answer. "And you, Lord Naevius?"

"The Red faction."

With a nod, she hums thoughtfully. "I see."

Eventually, after having to watch the next round, with the Blue faction racing ahead the other two factions, he watches her stand from her seat, the ornaments of her ancient staff tinkling from her gait. She observes afar, her glorious, golden locks splayed before him. Peculiarly, he is taken by her, almost as if he is gazing upon a statue of pure gold.

And as she turns, gandering at his presence as if she is to bestow judgment upon him, he feels the slightest prick of alarm from the back of his neck.

Calm as usual, he frowns whilst sipping from his goblet. _I had hoped you weren't my opposition, my lady._

"Lord Naevius, Lord Ignatius says that you plan to no longer be a strategist. Is this true?"

And so it begins. Retaining himself from uttering an exuberant _'Yes!'_ , he simply bobs his head. "Unfortunately," well, it is not exactly unfortunate. "I truly did have intentions of leaving the military."

Much to his amusement, Ignatius's phlegmatic facade is crumbling bit by bit, reserving himself from heatedly censuring him for mustering what he believes is a rather disapproving response.

"And what do you plan after an early retirement?" her words almost sound convincing if not for the suspicious edge in her tone, almost making him imagine that if her eyes are open they will narrow dangerously at him.

Though, he does understand her doubt. He has been traveling from different countries. He has amassed a certain infamous reputation for himself. He is admittedly not a dedicated countryman. And he is the strategist who subjugated Northern Cathargo, a growing threat and a superpower at the time. If he is to form an allegiance with another country, he can be a potential threat to the Reim Empire. Well, that is his deduction why this whole setup is made anyway.

He swirls his goblet, observing the flourishes of his wine. Pity, he cannot savor its exquisite taste to the fullest for it is spoiled with this tiring talk or rather this _interrogation_. Nevertheless, splendid vintage should not go to waste so he gestures the cupbearer to pour his half-empty goblet, who complies obediently. "I suppose I shall carry on my duties as a patrician or a scholar," he sips from his goblet once more, peering at her in scrutiny. "Or perhaps, become a traveler."

Lady Scheherezade glares at him, her marble blue orbs observing him vigilantly. "It would be a shame," she remarks. "You have done excellently as a strategist and I truly do believe you also have the capability in bringing an end to Reim's recent conflict with Tronje."

"You honor me too much," he ripostes with a languid smile. "Even before my interference, Reim has certainly done well without me."

Naevius glances at his wine. "Though, I must admit I am curious," he tells casually. "Tronje surprisingly happens to be a strong adversary. I have heard their resistance against the army, repelling their forces even. I wonder, has it become so much of a nuisance lately?"

Ignatius rises, standing alongside her as if it is finally his cue to meddle in. In that very moment, she and his uncle share a look that he easily perceives and is not very fond of. A common understanding, a goal set behind the lines. Nodding, she finally speaks, "Lord Ignatius, if you will."

"Of course, Lady Scheherezade," Ignatius dips his head respectfully and rests his eyes on him, much to his annoyance. "Your words speak of the truth. Tronje is a strong adversary. Dare I say, one of Reim's formidable adversaries ever since Northern Cathargo and Parthevia. For years, their walls remain impregnable and their strength undented. A while back, they have abnegated Reim's offer for it to be one of its provinces through assaulting a legion and killing an envoy of Reim. Eventually, the disputes have grown more turbulent and uncontrollable."

"Well, if you seek my opinion," he reiterates tediously, relaxing in his seat. "I do not believe that the standard strategy and the strength of Reim alone can pacify Tronje's disputes. Even more so through mere political talk and diplomacies."

"Why would you think of such?"

"Tronje fought for Northern Cathargo in the times of the Carthagoan war and it happens that they have made an allegiance, even before Reim's interference. It is likely that they will have to oppose Reim, but of course, you are also aware of this background knowledge. Reim cannot simply pacify their disputes. Judging from their response, they have not only shown signs of refusal but they have intention of waging war against Reim. An arrogant ilk, but they are sending us a message that they shall not be conquered and they have their advantages against us, which is proven through our current loses and difficulties."

Having realized that he is somewhat manipulated to discuss about his military deductions, he reprimands himself in his silence. Heaving a sigh, he drinks from his goblet through large gulps. "If I may be so bold, this audience is not for the sake of an amiable meeting," he utters, hoping the alcohol has done its part to mellow him in the stead of breaking into a fit. "But of this conflict— ah, forgive me, this can no longer be called a conflict. This is an onset of a war, yes?"

"Indeed."

Noticing his empty goblet to his dismay, he gestures the cupbearer once again and sends him away. Apathetically, he feigns ignorance of his situation. "How disappointing. And I am supposed to be concerned with this for what reason?"

"Lord Naevius," the Magi of Reim drawls, her chin tipped and her stature dignified. "Your advice and wisdom in warfare are greatly needed. We wish for you to partake in this war as Reim's strategist."

He sighs inwardly. What a bother.

"Ah," he starts with a firm tone. "Truly, it is the most honorable invitation to partake in this war. Let alone, for you, Lady Scheherezade, to seek for my aid. But I am admittedly a man without honor or valor, I cheat a war so many _honorable_ men of Reim claim. Although this does not offend me because it is true, do take my retirement as a consideration that I am a man who wishes to live in peace."

Undeterred, she counters back with authority and confidence twofold, "If you are a man without honor or valor, then you are to be a grateful man of Reim as her citizen and protector and to oblige to her needs when she is to encounter her adversaries without hesitation or excuse."

"Reim is indeed my country but I have already served her as a strategist in her previous disputes in the past. Of course, through the use of eccentric and nonstandard methods which most people will disapprove. My retirement does not conclude my service to Reim for I shall continue it through conventional ways, frankly in peace-related and tedious means."

"We do not live in a philanthropic world, Lord Naevius. You, out of many, are most aware of that. Reim will always have her enemies, seizing each opportunity to crush her at will for her glory and power. Even you have stated that peaceful negotiations cannot simply cease Tronje's disputes then what of Reim's enemies? Reim shall fight and with the strength of her people, we shall bring triumph. You are one of those people, one possessing a great mind. If you are to use your cunning for eccentric and nonstandard methods to abate a war then that is your choice for every man has different ways of intellect in finding solutions and has every right to use them if it is done for noble ends. Yours, however, are effectual and that alone is a gift which should not be wasted for more trivial matters. Especially if you can prevent a hundred deaths from a thousand more."

Naevius stops, stuck in the moment of bewilderment and realization.

His breath hitches softly as the scarring memory of war floods his mind.

The peal of clashing blades, the scorch of the glaring sun upon his skin, and glistening splatter of crimson on the ground, on steel and flesh. He remembers the triumph, the anguish, the sheer moment of betrayal where true glory has never felt so distant, unattainable. Where the glamor of victory is no more but a veil to the wretchedness of war. And then the colors of black, blue, and white reign over his sight, reminding him of pale, bloodless corpses rotting with one last wish lingering upon their gaping mouths. _I don't want to die_.

He is no more but boy in those times. A foolish boy who has known of death through accounts and literature within the comfort of his study. Who has thought he is a god who can manipulate the battlefield, if he so wished it. No one wins in a war and that is his greatest miscalculation.

He finally snaps from his trance, maintaining the image of composure. His eyes meet with hers. Blue against blue.

Lady Scheherezade glares at him, resolute and compelling and inspiring. "Lord Naevius, you have seen the heart of war in your youth and will you remain passive as your countrymen meet their demise for the sake of protecting Reim?"

He replies an unhesitating, "No."

Anticipating for a satisfying response, she then concludes their conversation with one final question.

"Then what is your answer, Lord Naevius?"

He heaves a breath.

His mind is settled.

He sighs.

"I refuse."

Before one of them are given a chance to change his mind or at least berate him for his decision, Naevius continues, "Of course, as a man without honor or valor, I am indeed selfish. If I am to sacrifice the future of a peaceful livelihood, I wish for compensation, especially if I am to return back to the grisly dealings of war."

Lady Scheherezade is left in deep rumination even though her answer is already set in her mind.

"Reim shall reward those who serve under her will. Say it and it is done."

He smiles.

Down below them, the tournament has come to an end and the victor is no other than the Red faction. Just as he predicted.

* * *

Seneca clears her throat awkwardly. "Um, Thais, is it?" she calls in a soft voice, one that is best jest-worthy if she is ever redhanded by a certain half-Fanalis boy. "How did you get lost anywa— aah, don't touch the dagger!"

Thais flinched from her raised voice, dropping her dagger back to her satchel from shock. Shoulders quivering, she cringes in fright and her round, freckled face is buried within her fisted hands. Her eyes are starting to well with tears and Seneca has no slightest inkling on how to make a child. Stop. Crying. Frustration whirls on her mind and dread bubbles at the pit of her stomach, climbing up to her throat in an appalling form of bile. Damn. Damn. Damndamndamn _dammit_.

She groans uneasily and acts hastily to cease the child from ever manifesting her worst fears. Gripping her right shoulder, she confronts her with a calm glare. "Sorry, all right?" she sighs and scratches the back of her head out of discomfit. "Um, I won't shout at you again like that. Really, just don't touch my things."

Bobbing her head in compliance, Thais sniffs and rubs her dewy eyes. She never says anything after that. Then again, she has not even spoken a word to her, except her name.

And the uneasiness never strays away. "You don't like being shouted at, do you?"

Scrutinizing the girl thoroughly, she notes the growing tension in her movements and the abnormal, shaky breaths she expires. Fear riddles her cherubic features at the notion, almost traumatized severely. Her crimson eyes narrow at the scuffs on both sides of her cheeks, almost as if her face has been shoved to the ground and scraped incessantly by the dirt and rocks. It is not the scuffs that bother her, but the fact that all of them are not fresh wounds. _She gained them beforehand._

She sighs once more, lengthy and thoughtful. "Let's find your parents," she graces her a slight smile, comfortingly reaching her hand at her. "I'm sure they must be worried."

Nodding, she latches her hand in compliance and then they finally stroll along the crowded streets in hopes of finding conclusion.

Seneca ganders at the girl at the corner of her eyes and notices the small frown upon her lips. In an odd sense, it reprieves her yet it equally pesters her. She is no longer sobbing but not smiling either. Her touch is accepting but as a means for support than trust. It is not like she expects her to instantly smile for putting up a front of being some sort of selfless, trustworthy model, but the experience of having to gain it is just so . . . unsatisfying.

The children always like the company of someone like Muu. To his credit, it's his charisma. The people love him— love the sense of security and familiarity he diffuses so effortlessly. She understands the reason behind it yet . . . whenever the picture of him smiling as he helps a child projects in her mind, there she feels the torment of confusion bank inside of her. His smile is so genuine, so _happy_ , and the child's own smile is no different from his savior. Being kind, being altruistic must have gratified some sort of earned satisfaction, contagious and heartwarming.

But it isn't her style.

Having to experiment the same deed to another does not imply that she will meet the same result and having to end that small curiosity is at least appeasing, but not quite satisfying all the same. The girl, Thais, will not smile at her nor at her seemingly kind deed. However, expecting a genuine smile sounds a bit ridiculous in her case, knowing she has shattered the smiles of the people around her before and now for the sake of self-amusement. She is not a girl who pleases, but she is a girl who wants to be pleased.

And this . . . is just not as rewarding as it appears.

She sighs.

She takes the bait; she pays the price.

Thais halts from her steps, absolutely petrified.

"Hm? Why did you—" Seneca feels the quake from her small fingers, clawing around her hand tautly. She kneels before her, seeking for answers, and there she has come to perceive that the girl was undoubtingly _afraid_. "Thais, look at me. What did you see?"

Her response is no more but whimpering and sharp gasps for air. She stammers incoherently under her breath, each word obscure and repetitive. Breathing in more frustration, breathing out more fear. She has never looked so carked— so, so terrified. It is certain. She must have seen something or someone from within this throng of people to trigger such reaction.

But it is unnerving enough that she does not know what she is up against and how she will stand up against it, especially in public. Even more so, to be involved in such plight to begin with.

Her ears perk. Footsteps from the bystanders. Footsteps drawing closer to them. Closer and closer, all uniform and menacing.

Instinct has taken over logic and every part of her screams for her to _run_.

She grasps her hand securely but before she can even think of an escapade it is too late when darkness washes over her vision and, and—

" _Aren't you good in avoiding trouble?"_

For once she admits she is wrong.


	4. Act I: 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi**

* * *

 **A/N:** I would like to address everyone that, as you can see, the rating has already changed to _M_. I would also like to take the opportunity to point out that I won't trigger warnings at the beginning of the chapters. Just as I've stated before, I have incorporated dark and mature themes in this story so it won't shy away from sensitive topics regarding violence, discrimination, and the like.

 **Dominus/Domina:** is the word for master or owner in Latin used in ancient Rome. The word is most often used by slaves when speaking of/to their owners. _Dominus_ is used for noblemen while _Domina_ is used for noblewomen. In this story, this will only be used by _slaves_ and not plebeians (working-class citizens) or any social standing higher than slaves and is only applicable within Reim.

* * *

Seneca is perched high above the flat roof of a commoner's mud-bricked house.

From her vantage point, she watches the torrents of humanity motion below her, unfaltering and alive. Her carmine eyes are particularly transfixed at the children playing below her, footracing at the cobbled road and reveling in their youth. The city people persist in performing their daily mundanities without fail— merchants mongering their goods, matron women gossiping in the laundering pools, children playing underneath the sun.

Laughter spills out from grinning mouths that have never expired a labored breath and childish orbs glimmer as radiant as the light of the day. Children who are sheltered and fed under the roofs of their parents. Children who are blissfully ignorant of reality. Children being children. The dull aloofness of her gaze betrays the small prickling desire that stirs beneath her breast. Longing like an intake of air. Envy like the salt from each pore.

The thunderous blare of horns galvanizes her to jolt in bewilderment and alert, tipping her from her balance. Her gaze lands on the sea, infiltrated by a large naval fleet, and catches the sight of a throng of foreign men, foemen from the north— _enemy_ soldiers, clad in armor with their countless spears, trespass upon the shores.

The radiant birds flitter by, fluttering anxiously— auguring the signs of an approaching tempest at her wake. It is an alien experience being able to see these enigmatic beings fly without its natural grace, scattering about the area in hordes of brilliant light. Seneca whips her attention back to the unaware populace, opening her mouth to signal danger. Yet instead of a shout of warning, what escapes her lips is a gasp.

Her eyes pulse wide, dilating from the chaos that plagues the city. The people run for their lives in vain, men are slain for their valor, and women and children are abducted by the ruthless men who murdered their husbands. Spears are impaled upon flesh and loot are stolen from corpses, stripping their expensive robes and cutting off their fingers for their rings. Bodies are littered everywhere, all trampled and mutilated. Piles upon piles toppling each other. Precious stone reverts into rubble and golden pavements are fractured, blood pooling within the crevices. Red fire arises, devouring structures into a blackened crisp— scorching its victims as they writhe in agony, screaming from their burns. The stench of death and ash smoke reeks upon every corner.

It is a hellish spectacle. And like any unfortunate victim of war, she is petrified in dismay. Shuddering in horror, she averts her eyes in appall and resists the urge to disgorge the bile on her throat. _Run away_ , her mind shouts. Out of impulse, she hastily jumps off the roof, falling to a narrow alley, unscathed due to the unnatural strength of her legs. Adrenaline rushing in her veins, she paces away with impeccable speed, like a fleeting shadow on the walls.

A shriek seizes her concentration and she cranes her neck to see a girl, reaching forth a hand, desperately beseeching the aid of another.

She nearly falters her running and attempts to reach back her hand, but her sudden display of bravery dwindles amongst the fumes once she spots the man behind her trembling frame, wrenching the girl in a dark corner, pushing her towards the concrete walls, lifting up her skirts—

A bloodcurdling cry cuts through the gale.

Golden-haired. Bright-eyed. That man is a monster.

Empty-handed, Seneca turns her back in fear, turns her back from the heaps of scarlet flames behind her, turns her back from the vicious fangs of war before it snares her within its clutches . . .

And runs.

.

.

.

Rust and salt.

And wherever she is stinks of it.

Tolerating the malodor, she shifts from the ground and hisses under her breath from some sort of handlock on her wrist. Whether her wrists are bruised or not, she pays it little concern. Seneca pins three troubling issues she has yet to solve and more to time to mull about. Firstly, Thais's disappearance and the thirteen possible deductions she has thought of behind it. Secondly, her compromising disposition— comprising of a suspiciously lethargic mind, slack movements, and dysfunctional senses. Poison, she thinks. No, rather a strong sedative.

Lastly, this ominous contraption on her wrists. Iron-made, novel of its kind, and fashioned for immobilizing. From her cellar, she is secured via handlock, both wrists and ankles, linked to thick chains on a metal post. Even with slack movement, her strength should be unaffected yet it is prevented by this blasted thing. A breakable toy, she reckons in arrogance. In wavering self-assurance. But it shouldn't be like that, should it now? _It's not possible_.

Whenever does her strength _fail_ her?

Perhaps, it does not hurt her that much but it feels like _torture_. Holding her down in such vulnerable state. Like some hunted animal.

Her heart races and she endeavors to mollify her tension. One breakdown will only guarantee wasted efforts. She has spent her time with Naevius long enough to imitate his intellections and best attributes. After all, being entitled and selected as his pupil should mean that she is expected to be knowledgeable and competent in handling a risk.

Though this particular one happens to be the most dangerous plight she has encountered yet.

And all because she lets her guard down from a child. An excusably innocent child.

Strengthening her fortitude, she perceives her environment. Awhile ago, her eyesight is proven useless as it can only see images closest to dizzying colors and blurs though her ears, fortunately, can still function well. In her blindness, she hears a racket— no, it sounds more like a violent tirade.

"You were a _centurion_ for fuck's sake!" a livid voice rants, spatting a headful of profanities. "And to have to let your guard down for a whore? You're a damn disgrace!"

"I-I apologize. It shan't happen again."

"It better be. I have no need for fools incapable of doing their job. The only good thing from this is having to capture most of those runaways and that girl. A Fanalis slave would fetch a hefty price for the next auction. You're pardoned for now."

"I am most grateful, Lord Hanno."

"The slave market business can be such a demanding job. Nonetheless, I cannot tolerate mutiny under my roof. Discipline should be in order." Hanno intonates. Then he pauses for six agonizing seconds. "Where's the child?"

Her blood has gone ice-cold when the abrupt blare of treading echoes the area. Sound has never felt so reassuring and unnerving all the same when a helpless, whimpering squeal reverberates upon her ears, straight to her heart—

"Mama!"

Her eyes pulse wide in agitation, deliberately forsaking her composure. Her restored eyesight grants her no sense of reprieve but a maddening apprehension in her chest. They have dragged her in this wretched place—where cages are pullulated in rows and humans and beasts alike occupy the vicinity—and force her to kneel, pushing her face relentlessly down the pavement. The sight alone has awoken a great urgency within her and something far more malicious than that of good-willed justice.

Seneca's hands quake in unmistakable rage as she endeavors to break the handlock. Clank, clank, clank, the tune repeats itself like a promise. To no avail, every attempt has been fruitless.

"A friend of yours?" Hanno speaks aloud, his words menacing and hinting slight wicked satisfaction. "Escaping is futile. You should know that, little beast. And this child shall serve as a great reminder for those who disobey."

This time his voice drops into a solemn declaration with a tone that is filled with dark assurance and the very thought shoots a tremor to her chest. She remembers men like that before with that identical wretchedness upon his cold, unfaltering eyes. The eyes of a killer. Although those eyes no longer belong to a Reiman soldier, they are now from a Cathargoan merchant. Monster. That's what they are. After all, she has always known the beasts beneath human flesh and all of them are men.

" _Thais!_ "

Behind him, a woman cries out, begging pitifully in all fours. Albeit the tolls of slavery upon her, one can never mistake the foreign beauty in her countenance. Her hair is like that of fire, cascading in clusters behind her like flames and her eyes are of a golden brown. The sleeve of her ruined garb droops from her shoulder, leaving her breast exposed, and she sobs with her forehead touching the floor.

"Please, dominus," she pleads bravely, supported with maternal strength, in spite of her trembling frame. "Not my child. Let me feel the brunt of your wrath in her stead. S-she has done no wrong! I was the one—"

He holds no qualms, no such thing as mercy or regret, upon hitting her squarely in the cheek, his ringed fingers glimmering from freshly spilt blood. As he takes a step closer he kicks her relentlessly, breaking her face and battering her curled body with his blows. In front of her own child. He drags a thick portion of her hair, hauling her up painfully. "If it weren't for you, some of my slaves wouldn't have escaped, you wench!"

He eventually throws her back to the floor, expiring shallow breaths. Mottled with livid bruises and cuts, she is barely moving from the throes of his anger. "You! Come over here," he orders hotly as the man, who he has thoroughly scolded awhile ago, strides forth his direction. Hanno snaffles his iron flog from his belt and dabs it on his leather-clad chest, inciting him to take it. "Fix your mess."

"Lord Hanno," he mutters. "Have you not . . . punished her enough?"

"I do not want you to punish her, fool," he reprimands. "I meant for you to _end_ her."

Hesitation flashes upon his eyes. Suspended in contemplation, he stills and detects his employer's impatience. He reluctantly takes the flog and pads slowly at the limp slave woman. Flickering his eyes at the immobilized girl behind him, he opens his mouth, about to question him.

Having been aware of his behavior, Hanno cuts him off. "Let her watch," is his final order. "Everything."

And then the beating starts. Iron sings against bruised flesh, snapping each bone, spilling blood. And it continues on over and over again. Her life pools beneath his sandaled feet in all its dark, crimson glory. Her hand stretches out weakly, desperately. Such cruelty. It is a depressing sight to behold.

"Let this be a reminder," he announces coldly to all his slaves, all despondent and afraid. "Deserters and troublemakers are better off—"

It ends with one final blow to the head. And a child's cry.

"Dead."

She makes a firm resolve in her silence—

She breaks the thick chain apart. Blood flows from her hand but she does not notice it. For vengeance festers in heart.

— _T_ _he unforgivable will_ _ **not**_ _be left unpunished._

* * *

Naevius wanders about the ancient corridors of the stadium, nonchalant of the unruly string of whispers of the people. Clad upon his shoulders is a toga of rich blue, an exquisite brand of silk known to belong to those of regality, yet he lacks an entourage of peers and wards joining in his stride. He regards the thought with disdain. The least thing he wanted is a throng of sycophants breathing on his neck.

He does always reckon the company of his own shadow more preferable.

"Sire!"

Recognizing the voice behind him, he turns and beckons his aide to come forward. "What is it, Mintho?"

There are anxious lines traced on his face but knowing him such a thing is no more but a distinct feature of his. Perspiring profusely, on the other hand, is a sign that is taken with utmost urgency. He clears his throat and lowers his head, a gesture to express his respect and inferior status. "I regret to inform you that Seneca has not returned."

As he crosses his arms, he sighs softly. "It is unlikely of her character to stay too long at this hour," he mentions, cupping a thumb under his chin. "Has she said word to where she has gone?"

That is a ridiculous question. Of course not.

Mintho further lowers his head anxiously, almost hanging in dismay. He takes his time to compose the right words but fails to do so. "Unfortunately, she left without saying anything," he utters, deflated. "Again."

"Really now, that child . . . " he grumbles as he shakes his head, considering the idea of giving his pupil a leash. "Mintho, summon—"

"Pardon the intrusion, but I could not help but overhear your little predicament,"

His eyes widen in a fraction. Peering behind his back, Naevius fixes his sharp gaze over the thick whorl of dark hair and then toward those equally dark eyes, curved in amusement. There is a pleasant smile upon her mouth though it is anything but gentle or amiable. It is just as cutting as it is attractive, like how he remembers it. The instant he catches a glimpse of this woman he feels a dire urge to avoid her at all cost. Run away if he must. The memory of their last encounter leaves a bitter taste to his tongue.

And he _loathes_ any sort of reminder of that past. It— _she_ haunts him of that day every time and still takes pleasure in doing so, whether thought or corporeal.

He scowls at the sight of her.

Wearing that infuriating smile to purposely annoy him, she greets him. "Strategist."

"Yotanwa," he utters like a spat. "As pleasing as it is meeting you again in Remano after all those—" he drones nonchalantly, pretending that he has lost track of the time that has gone by between them. He silently wishes he is not just pretending about that matter.

She seizes the opportunity to finish his sentence. "Five years."

"Yes, five. I am fairly certain you fared well in your recent excursions, as you always do," he reiterates snappishly, not waiting for any of her infamous retorts. "Alas, now is not the time."

She raises her brow ever so slightly. "Your skill in circumvention is truly impeccable. It hurts an old friend too," her smile widens, almost breaking into a fit of laughter, as she catches him offhandedly huff at the mention of 'old friend'. "I can help you, you know. I can find that irking pupil of yours."

He sends her questioning glance. "You've met my pupil?"

Her smile slightly strains from his curiosity. "Awhile ago. Gambling with the other gladiators," she answers. "She told me who she was and what she was capable of."

 _What she was capable of._ Seneca always does have a penchant for gambling and demeaning her opponents. It is not a surprising fact that she finds his pupil insufferable. He feels a small twitch from his lips. Clearing his throat, he interjects calmly, "Either way, I do not recall you having any foresight than the ability you possess now."

Yotanwa is not like any other woman and this sort of discrimination is not meant to imply that she is from the Yambala, but because she _is_ an exception. Like that of those fortune tellers and witch doctors, her eyes are gifted, specially made to see the rukh. Those that hold the design of destiny.

"True, I may be a seer, but I never said anything about foresight, strategist," she says, motioning the presence of a masked giant to come into view. "But the miracle I meant is Muta here."

It impresses him that for such a large and intimidating fellow his presence remains reticent and inconspicuous, even from his weather eye. All the while, it leaves room for contemplation— as to where did she find him? He certainly qualifies the perfect traits as one of her spies, or what she prefers to call her _servants_ , or often at times, her _little ravens_. Yotanwa is greedy for talent, hiring the first competent man that has caught her eye and utilizing him for her disposal, and admittedly her choices are not bad either.

Where she used them is the question. But from what he has garnered from their relationship in the past, it is perhaps for scouring information— for deals of confidential knowledge and whatnot. It is one may say a crude business, having to sell knowledge for a high price, regardless whether someone seeks for weaknesses to disadvantage the other.

Sometimes, he wonders if he should tell her father about her illegal dealings but he always opts to dismiss the notion. It is none of his concern, even if it provides little amusement for his part. There is also the issue of how _coaxing_ she is when keeping a mouth shut.

She pats Muta's bulky, tattooed arm, which does not react from the action. "You see, Muta can track down a person through scent," she explains confidently, as if she is selling merchandise. "A peculiar talent of his but a blessing nonetheless."

Her gaze finally lands on him, charismatic and imposing. "Though this is the fastest way. After all, Fanalis often disappeared in these streets," she implies subtly, finalizing his decision. "What say you, Naevius?"

Yotanwa always has a knack in persuasion.

And getting under his skin.

"You," he starts dubiously. "Were never the most charitable person, Yotanwa. What do you want?"

She smirks at his words, expecting them. "The brat took my prized dagger," is her excuse. "I want something of equal value for compensation."

He flicks a quick glance to his aide next to his side, shaking his head to assure that their options are limited. An advice is not needed in this plight.

Making his final decision, he sighs. "Very well."

* * *

Seneca cannot recall when was the last time she cried. That very sensation it brings of a raw tightness in her throat, the warm tears welling in her eyes, and that untended weakness that leaves her wallowing in self-pity. In those times of drudgery and solitude— whether she feels pettily jealous of those well-endowed children blessed with a livelihood she can never attain or starves alone at the gritty streets in days of famine, she has always disregarded such concept and replaces it with indifference.

Little things only gain little of her concern and to have to sulkily devote herself to the darkness of her life is truly pathetic and especially not the path she will ever tread upon.

Yet never has she felt so compelled to release the tumult in her chest.

Never has she felt the need to cry over such little things that she once was apathetic of.

Not until now.

Footsteps echo through the corridors. A familiar swarm of rukh flutter by. His presence is unexpected and coincidental— or perhaps, fate has intended it. It is ironic, really, how everything is as it used to be.

That is if bloodstained floors can be replaced with barren lands and the violent carnage counts for mounts of corpses.

Naevius simply keeps his distance from her, not from fear or appall but that of subtle sensitivity. His blue eyes are honest and cognizant and phlegmatic. He has always been a dispassionate man, thorough to not succumb to affection or sentiments. Even from his own pupil. His gaze is an alleviation. It is a reproach. It is an understanding. It is everything of those all at once, a look gratified from that of a master to his apprentice.

Honestly, she thinks that his solemness and lack of tenderness is what keeps her sane from all this madness and devastation.

"Navi," she drawls numbly. "Why is it when you do the right thing . . . things don't come out as you expected it to be?"

He glares at her thoughtfully with that intellectual look upon his face. "Tell me, Seneca," he says in his cool, distinctive tone in spite of having to witness the gore splayed on the ground. "Have you satiated your anger with the death of these men?"

Slow. Quiet. Plain-spoken. ". . . yes."

He takes a confident step forward. "Do you regret it?"

Seneca contemplates for a small while. She eyes her hands curl open and close back. "No, they, he . . . _he_ _deserved it_ ," her nails and knuckles are mottled with blood and filth, which she did not mind. "He beat those innocent people . . . "

 _His slaves._

"He kidnapped them away from their former lives . . . "

 _He bought them._

"He killed Thais's mother . . . "

 _I am not wrong._

Breathing shakily, she elaborates, "A man like that . . . I've seen men like that before . . . they came from across the sea, all clad in armor with long spears. I've seen it all before . . . although I was unaware of what was happening back then when they killed the Carthogoan men and brought the women and children to their ships, I understood it was bad yet I could not do anything. I was saved by the birds, the _rukh_ , and I could not even spare at least one life . . . "

Her head dips low. Not out of guilt or shame but of a truth she is always aware of. _It's because I didn't care for anything._

"No, I don't regret it . . . I can't do anything much, to be honest. People can hope for so many things but sometimes those things are just not enough. Yet now, I've encountered one, no, many of them, and I have realized that I have this strength . . . this _power_. I've realized that maybe I can change things. I changed. I'm different now. I _can_ save people . . . I can save them from that fate."

She pauses for a second, silencing herself. "I did save them, right?" she says, her voice making a feeble attempt to sound hopeful. "I only wanted to . . . help them . . . "

 _But is it wrong that I started to care?_

He pries, "But?"

"They were _afraid_ of me."

It is peculiar, really. That what follows after that downpour of tears is an incurable hollowness, like that of a black plague that guttles and destructs. That familiar sensation hits too close to home, where everything and anything neither matters and she can just walk it off as always without giving a damn while the world burns beneath her feet. Fate, luck, and intuition be damned— _she always gets away with it_.

Perhaps, it has always been her indifference, her hollowness inside, that has aided her through thick and thin. Empathy destroys her, inciting her to meet that misfortunate child that has been naught more but trouble for her, impassioning her to fight for another— _to murder in cold blood_. Making her desperately want to shed tears for the most trivial reason. If she is anything like her past self then she will not feel like _this_. Stoop so low and pathetic.

The memory still burns in her mind, callous and raw like a scar. The fight is a blur, almost surreal, but the adrenaline is there, real and intense and invigorating. Arms stretch out with a swing and fists hurl to the next. Her legs running, kicking, leaping about, like lightning. Power— a formidable power takes over her and _she_ _loves every inch of it_. The monstrosity of it. Then she recalls breaking their chains, the sweet clangs of metal dropping on the ground one by one, and nothing feels more relieving than that.

 _Beast._

It is just a word. It is the instigator of what should have not happened. Like each clank of cold metal, the word repeats from each of their mouths. Their eyes are wide in pure terror. Their bodies trembling in fear. As if they have witnessed a monster far more terrible than their own master. As she endeavors to reason herself with words, they throw her with pieces of iron stakes and stones. As she reaches forth a hand, they fend her off with brittle steel. As she stops their attempts, they run from her. They hide behind their cages. _They kill themselves_.

And Thais, that child, is no more but a hollow shell. Damaged beyond repair. Her eyes are dead and glassy, reminding her of the soulless eyes of a corpse. She lay motionless on the ground, drenched beneath the pool of blood. Cuddling next to the cold, mauled body of her mother. Her lips chant a single word in slow, hushed tones.

 _Beast. Beast. Beast._

Then her knees give in. She stares for awhile.

And finally she cries.

Her bloodied fingers ceases moving, curling in. She expires a shuddering breath.

"Seneca," he utters gently, idly standing before her like a statue. "You may have broken their fetters but you cannot liberate a man from his mind. Fear is poison and it festers in time. They've been struck and beaten to the point that they can no longer understand the intent behind your actions in fear for you reflected the cruelty that their master has shown to them."

Seneca swallows the air, the stench of death and blood filling her nostrils. Her eyes look up at him. This time out of desperation and distress. "But didn't they . . . want their master to _die_? I didn't hurt them. I didn't do what he did to them. Wasn't he the source of their suffering?"

His head bends down, blond locks falling past his right eye. "Indeed, he was."

Her fists tighten. Confused and betrayed, she croaks, "Then why am I wrong?"

His crystalline blue eyes soften at her words, almost nostalgic. "You are not wrong. Your intentions were pure but the means of achieving it was not the best course of action you have done," he reasons sagely, catching her in slight surprise. "The world does not bid the wishes of one. It is a reality we must accept, a merciless truth. Regardless of any situation, not every selfless deed is rewarded in full and we cannot always bend such things to our favor, even it is done for more nobler reasons."

She inclines her head to the side, averting her eyes. Opposing the idea. "But it is unfair . . . "

"It is unfair, but it would not mean we must inevitably relent to it. If you dwell too much, you'll only find yourself delving deep in pointless despair," he reiterates, folding his arms to his chest. Rukh flits by around him. "And, really, it only complicates things to what is truly important."

"Fear is a natural thing but also misguiding. They feared you, yes, but it does not conclude that you are what they fear you are," is his advice, words warming her chest, scaring her demons away. "You are your own person."

Naevius graces her a smile, genuine and inspiring. "You're a brat," he remarks. "But you're not a beast, that I am certain."

The rukh surround them, glaring in their golden colors. Bathing the shadows of the steel cages and crevices aglow.

Her eyes pulse wide.

She blinks, a tear streaking her face.

Warmth. His words are warm and assuring.

And all she ever needs.

Her hand rubs her eye, not minding its stain on her cheek.

"I won't carry you, little one," he reaches out his hand to her. "I'll help you stand."

Seneca accepts his hand, grasping it like saving grace, and hence wordlessly imparts her decision.

She stands along side him with confidence, _with conviction_ , both of them treading upon the blood of miserable men. The stain clings beneath the soles of their feet and death lurks amidst their wake. Something stirs within her chest which evokes back those memories of barren lands and carcasses— yet the smoldering feeling is not from warm and promising sentiments but of pure resolve.

Once the light has shone upon her face, she has never felt so alive.

* * *

A pair of dark eyes, flecked gold from the radiance of the rukh, are carefully trained at the unusual pair.

Crossing her arms around her chest, Yotanwa sighs mutely and finally adjusts her mask back to her face. Next to her is Muta who waits for an order, servile in his stance, silent in his objections. Like any tame servant should be. "You think of me wrong, I know," she denotes without reservation. "Perhaps, it is wrong to have you involved in this. To have you spy on the Fanalis child and watch her be dragged away. Ah, no, not perhaps. It is wrong. _That_ is what you wanted to say."

He speaks of nothing, as expected. Yet his silence has spoken in volumes.

"It's not your sense of smell that amazes me, Muta," she admits, a mirthless smile curling her lips. "It has always been your discern to see the good in people. You did not save her and that was your way of showing obedience to me. But what made you abandon your task and return back to me is because you saw the good in that Fanalis child, yes? Maybe that is what you see in her . . . but my eyes, they see differently."

Her gaze wanders towards the horizon as the evening gale howls to the sky. She has seen a different variety of people in her life, all selfish and ignorant of the grand scheme of things. Most of that majority are those who lust for power and who have or have yet to fall in despair and with them their rukh, their established fate. Never has she claimed to have known a good heart but only an innocent one. Hearts of men can be dangerous things. They harbor the seeds of crusade, nurse the darkest of passions, and weave destiny's play.

Even the heart of a child can become the most lethal weapon.

"I know not of what you have planned for this child, strategist," she intones beneath her mask. Her foretelling is meant for the ears of another. "But I have already told you that the rukh around her holds the truth."

 _I trust that child more than the claims you have against her_ , is his response; his final, unwavering decision.

The peculiarity of her rukh is not identical to the rukh of an anomaly of this world nor being smothered with a swarm of tainted rukh. The rukh that enhalos around her flutters above her head, hording within her orbit and somewhat watching over her, and just the sight of it is rather odd. From experience, she can honestly comprehend that these signs are familiar to that of a great destiny written in her fate that will unfold hereafter.

That is the troubling issue of the matter. Large roles in the great order of things do not always mean that they are meant for the betterment of all. It always works as a double-edged sword, either bringing goodness to the world or malevolence and destruction. That child is destined for a revolutionary fate and Yotanwa cannot help but pity than awe her.

Fate is inevitable and to have such fate entails a life of sacrifice.


	5. Act II: 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi**

* * *

 **Time skip: 2 years**

* * *

Bestrode on his mount, Tiberius Caepius surveys the land from afar. From a hilltop, he can only see a breadth of wilderness encompass the area, abounding a chain of snowcapped mountains that Pyrene is widely known for and just barely the glimpse of the clear waters of the White Lake to the northeast, neighbored near the Col Peak which is situated within the Reim-Tronje border. To the south, Ebro river stretches forth, snaking through the ridges and flora in crystalline streams of rushing water beneath the daylight. Within Ebro river's eastmost side, adjacent to the mountain range and Midus Lake, is a section of Roma Ulterior, a province which is annexed by Reim a few years back. Far beyond Ebro river to the far south, the great walls of Tronje extend far and wide into the distance.

"Rumors of a dungeon nearby, you say?" asks Valerius Corvus, his eyes ever vigilant to the perimeter.

"Yes, sir," Caepius says shortly after being gusted by the cold wind. "With such rumor abuzz, I can't help but think it might turn out to be a troubling issue for us."

"Why would you think of that, Caepius?"

"Well, sir, if the rumor is true," Caepius starts, surmising. "There's a chance that Tronje might pursue on conquering a djinn."

"But we are being led by General Ignatius this time, aren't we?" Corvus replies with a huff. "On the other hand, let them greed for power. It'll be their demise if they chose to do so or not. Even if those barbarians get hold of a djinn, General Ignatius is also a dungeon conqueror and far more experienced than most."

"There's that," Caepius agrees but his gut apprehension has yet to wear. "But there's also the fact that the higher-ups won't allow that kind of situation to unfold. The other issue is, perhaps, set on who's going to conquer the dungeon. It's been too long since Lady Scheherezade has chosen a new dungeon conqueror for Reim and with the times growing more chaotic it is far too inexpedient to have one of our generals be in a dungeon."

There is a look of opposition in his bearings. It is the look all Reiman men posses, one deriving from an age-old pride and magnitude that has thrived through centuries of accumulated glory for their motherland. "Even if it is one of our generals, shouldn't it be taken more as an honor?" Corvus debates, his voice laden with experience and justification. "To be chosen by Lady Scheherezade herself is meant to mean that you are worthy to take such responsibility and power. It should inspire the men."

"Though what if this chosen candidate happens to be good for their morale within the battlefield?"

Caepius recollects the words of his grandfather from his old war stories when his father, the former supreme commander, Fabius Caepius has garnered the majority of the legions' respect and confidence in the battle grounds though a great decline of morale settles upon their hearts when he has been drafted away from their current war with Parthevia and chosen to be a dungeon conqueror, after having sent numerous candidates to their demise just for a meddlesome dungeon. As his delay lengthens so do their spirits falter and tire thus is followed by hopelessness then grief and grief invites madness. Only then when tidings of another has conquered the dungeon that word has spread that their supreme commander has died in vain. Reports of insubordination, loss of morale, and misconduct have arisen, which has resulted in an alarming high rate of executions in that significant year.

If not for General Ignatius Alexius' intervention and command, the legions will not have collapsed and lost to war from Parthevia. Albeit being responsible for a thousand deaths of young soldiers for condemning them for infractions, he eventually has been elected to take the mantle of supreme commander. Under his rule, any disputations of the sort have been abated, implementing a much more stricter system in the military reforms.

Simply put, dungeons are infamous for its bloody history of fruitless attempts and time consummation. Such tribulations are better off nonexistent. Especially, in warring times. "It could be a problem and we can't afford losing talented generals at times like these . . . "

 _Certainly not, when most generals are only exceptional in winning battles for ambition than an actual battle in the field._

Taking note of his raised voice and rambling before his senior officer, Caepius clears his throat. "Of course, if the rumor is true, that is."

"I commend you for being abreast in such matters, Caepius," Corvus acknowledges as his hand pets the mane of his destrier. "Whether the rumor is true or not, it won't impede our efforts. Although Tronje proves to be a strong adversary, Reim shan't fall to shameless barbarians."

As a man of aspiration, Caepius takes his words to heart and relishes them quietly beneath his phlegmatic mask. Though as soon as that satisfaction fills him with a sense of profound accomplishment, it also drifts past him just as fast, replacing it with pessimism. He feels it lingering, washing his tongue with bitterness upon reaching a certain prognosis that he cannot stomach all too well.

It is to be expected from this man after all.

Valerius Corvus is one of the many well-respected veterans he has ever known. Though he is already fifty-two years of age, his mind is fortified and sharp as a blade and his body is honed from long years of constant warring, draped with a crimson sagulum upon his shoulders. Atop his head is a helmet with a transverse crest brimmed with plumes that boast of his rank as a centurion. The Primus Pilus, the senior centurion of the third legion.

He is truly admirable and his proficiency, both from command and the sword, is unquestionable, earning him the confidence of General Augustus. Time has made him excellent and wise though even such a great man can never overcome the most common flaw: pride. Just as all Reimans, he is a proud man who lives within the grandeur of the rich, glorious past, reflecting back on those olden days and mistaking it with the present. Pride does nothing but swell the head and whisper of greatness which is lost.

And Caepius, who is thrusted with expectations, only grows more cynical each day, even from his own ambitions and abilities. He is an appointed Optio in the third legion, a second-in-command under his centurion. Eventually, he has come to confront his fears much sooner for the very man he respects is no more but the model of what he is expected to become. A great man gone astray by the burden of pride.

A brisk breeze sweeps by, quivering the towering trees. Disconnecting himself from his own musings, he casts the sour thoughts away and opts to think about more significant matters such as their scouting mission.

"Sir," Caepius calls behind, spotting a moving figure beyond the landscape. "There's a man far ahead!"

"Good eye, Caepius."

They ride forth, seizing their reins and designating their destination to the west side. Eyes hounding on the lurking figure, it is then they perceive that their arrival has not come unnoticed for the feeble-looking old man halts his staggering. A man like that can only live in peace, he thinks. He is dressed in what appears to be traveling clothes, poor and measly for the cold. There is wooden crutch on his hand to support him from his crippled leg and a raddled bag slung to his shoulder.

They circle around him, steadying their mounts, intimidating him. Corvus takes initiative, interrogating the man in question.

"What are you doing in the outskirts?"

With his hand to his mouth, he hacks a raspy cough and clears his throat. "I'm jus' a traveler, sirs," he says in slur, wiping his hand to his breeches. "I'm findin' meself a nice inn to stay before 'em soldiers catch up with me."

"Soldiers? What soldiers do you mean?"

"Tron. Tron men, they are. There's an army of 'em comin' 'ere. Thousands of 'em! Had to run fast to not get seen."

An ambush. They both share a grave look of understanding. One that means that an onslaught approaches and such valuable knowledge must be prioritized and then reported to their general, Augustus Alexius.

 _But something feels amiss . . ._ Caepius experiences an abrupt sense of foreboding from the pit of his stomach, latent tension bleeding through him. In the verge of solving an impending threat, how can his judgment still be affected with dread?

Corvus inquires further, "Where did you last saw them?"

He points to the north. "Near the lake, sirs."

"Show us the way."

* * *

 **ACT II** || QUID PRO QUO

* * *

Seneca watches her master read his complex tomes, which are cluttered on his table. Though to her dismay, it is not just his beloved tomes and texts but also some paper scrawls that are crimped and pressed down, his quill haphazardly perching on one corner, and his sweltering goblet of wine sopping a small trail of liquid on the surface. His breakfast remains on its spot beside him, the articles of food cold and untouched. Her lips twist into a frown. If there is one thing that he cannot do, he cannot take care of himself. Even more so, tidy his own surroundings.

"You're not going to eat that?"

"You can have it if you wish," Naevius begins to scribble on a random sheet of paper after closing another tome. "Get me another pitcher of wine."

As she stands before him with another tray of his midday meal, she shoots him a reproachful glare. He turns a blind eye to her presence— the world beyond his studies, to be specific. Her foot involuntarily stomps on the ground, probably puncturing a hole within the deerskin carpets. Clearing her throat to rivet his attention, she reasons stubbornly, "You haven't eaten since morning," she releases a sigh, putting the tray on his table. "The least thing you should do is faint from overworking. Mintho might just break into a hysteria from that."

Not gracing her a look, he still firmly perseveres in attending another one of his tomes. "I won't faint."

Unconvinced, she deadpans, "That last time you said that you collapsed from your chair the day after."

"Not this time," he asserts, downing the contents of his liquor. "Get me that pitcher. I'm getting parched."

A hint of sunlight breaches their small confrontation into a lapse of silence yet the undercurrent of opposition still murks the air. Their tame mouths and schooled faces betray the defiant intentions ablaze in their eyes, regarding the temporary intervention as a nuisance. Pushing aside the canopied tent flap, Mintho comes into view in his light robes of burnt yellow and sienna, contrasting his swarthy complexion. He clears his throat after a curt dip of his head.

He opens his mouth. "Sire—"

"Ah, finally," he remarks in relief, muttering a string of grateful nothings under his breath. "Mintho, can you get me another pitcher of—"

Cutting his sentence short, Seneca rats him out, "He's not eaten anything since morning."

"He has _what_."

The moment he has uttered those words, she knows she has won over another ally.

Mintho is not just his aide after all but also his acting physician— or at least, that's what she can tag him with. Regardless of his bouts of panic and fretting, he does possess a decent intuition and knowledge in the healing department that can par toe-to-toe with his unnatural and deviant interest in the aspect of medicine and the like. She can sniff it from him again, from the earthy grime underneath his feet to the herbal juices on his fingertips— his eerie habits, she thinks. Either way, because of those remedies and his perpetual checkups, their master is faring quite well for a time.

With wide, frantic eyes, the aide barrels towards him. "Sire, do you have any inkling what time is it? Reserve your strength, I deeply advice it."

Naevius's frown deepens. His mood is rankling by the second and he does not conceal it with his calm mask or impassive expression. His fingers are drumming on the table, a manifestation of his impatience. Need it be said? He is obviously pissed off.

He breathes sharply, exhaling through his teeth. His icy glare charges at his fussing aide, earning him a wince. "I _am_ well aware," he says, his voice no longer glossing the venom in it with placid, subtler tones. Then his piercing eyes travel at her, sending even the smallest of chills down her spine. "And I am perfectly fine."

He sighs for alleviation, closing his eyes, as he rubs his fingers on his temples. "Can someone just get me that pitcher—"

After sharing a look, they chorus, " _You're not fine at all_."

Naevius twitches a brow in vexation. Strands of his pale-blond hair brush his forehead, obscuring his glaring eye.

Before the two of them begins to carp him, he pushes himself from the table and stands up from his seat. "I don't want to hear any of it," he barbs hotly, his voice laced with unbridled choler. "If no one will get me that wine, I'll do it myself."

Just as he is about to near the tent flap, Seneca intrudes his stride.

"I'll do it," she speaks softly, latching his attention. "Only if you rest for a moment."

With a growl of annoyance, he waves her off. "I have no time for your—"

Her face gradually smoothens. With her hands tucked behind her erected back, she takes a confident step forward. "If you think about it, you won't have to walk a few steps away and get the wine yourself," she reasons in a smart, facile manner. Credible is the right word for it. "You're just going to lie down and wait."

With an indignant snort, he looks down at her and cocks a brow. "And why should I listen to you, little one?"

She shrugs. But her chin is raised high and her face is cool and intrepid.

"Spares you the trouble of doing a chore."

Naevius stands idly with crossed arms, contemplating her words in his silence. His blue eyes are meditative, judicial, and serious, boring down on her to scour a flinch or a flaw to sneer at but he does not find any because she will not bend nor break. The fire in his temper is slowly subsiding in slim scales; still there but less aggressive no less. He stares at her again and strokes his chin. Mulling.

"All right," he enunciates sternly, treading towards his armchair and sitting on it. He holds out a hand. "I'll comply,"

Crossing his legs, he rests his arms and leans his cheek on his palm. Nonchalant and patient, as he should be. "Just make haste when you do so."

Seneca returns a nod and then precedes to duck out of the tent flap.

It isn't a simple deed to bait him, that is for sure. She supposes his volatile disposition could have been the effects of sleeplessness— he hasn't slept in two days. Perhaps, the incessant need to consume alcohol is for the purpose to buffer any sort of impairments in his temper. Not that it has little to no side effects though it does occasionally work. Although those are no more but mere factors. The real instigator is set on his mindset.

Naevius is not always the placid-tempered intellectual he made himself out to be. He may look like the part, he may convince others, and he may have even convinced himself, but he tends to overlook through his actions, thinking he knows himself better than he actually does. He does get impatient. Sometimes, his temper does get the best of him. And he will adamantly not listen to others when it concerns in a specific matter that must be taken with consideration. Push him a little, he'll shut you off.

Unless, she convinces him to think he _wants_ what they want for him. Reasoning, persuasion, those are just the tools. There is also the issue that he is not dense either. Though if one is to look past that, she can make up some sort of excuse to assure him that can make him listen. She makes use of his circumspection, maneuvers it to her favor. If she is on his side, he will prefer it. If she is reasoning for his sake, he will not object. If she is doing what benefits him, he will not argue. It will be foolish of him to contradict after all and she knows how much he dislikes losing face, more so if he starts a meaningless fuss.

It is just a few complicated words said in the right way. There's also a hint of manipulation in the mix but she lets it pass.

Dousing a flame can moderate the heat rather than fanning it, she recalls an old proverb she has read before.

Having noticed another presence behind her, she says— or rather, initiates quietly, "It's your turn," she points out. "You should convince him to eat something."

Mintho, beneath all his antsy fits and mildness, does not fall short in having a suspecting eye. Nor is he one to fall victim into one of her schemes. In a way, it makes a perfectly good reason why he is entrusted to supervise her in the first place. After having to watch her chicanery awhile ago, as silent and reticent as he always is, he easily perceives the situation thus he does not speak out of turn. Seeing through her manipulation, he sends her an approving grin.

In a hush voice, he compliments, "Sly child,"

"I know I am."

With a sincere hand to his chest, he replies, "I'm grateful either way."

This catches her attention. She gives _her keeper_ an impish look. "Does this mean I'm free to do whatever I want at whim?"

"Seneca dear," he utters in a constrained tone, a brittle simper curling his lips. "Don't push your luck."

From his response, she does not repress a laugh.

—

Seneca peers at one of the tomes, silently reading its faded calligraphy.

"Why are you reading Tronje's history?"

"It is necessary," Naevius breaks a small portion of the bread, dips it on his broth, and eats it. "History isn't just records of the past. It's a living reflection of what we must not mirror to the present. Understand?"

Conceiving the essence of his words, she simply nods. Something pesters her, though. "But isn't history just written by winners?"

He gives a brief pause. "Explain."

"Well, there's perspective in accounts which would mean there's an aspect to it that is subjective," she remembers some historical accounts in the librarium about some false claims in a particular area in which she finds herself disagreeing. "Like if a certain country wars against another country because of differing ideologies, conquest, etcetera and that certain country wins, they conquer and write in their view of the war all the while glorifying their ends and the defeated country is deprecated in history."

An impressed gleam flickers in his eyes. He nods in approval. "There is truth in your insight," he tells sagely. "Though if perspective is the concern then delve into both versions from each viewpoint with impartial eyes. Think of it as a message that needs to be deciphered. History may be subjective in essence but it does not stray too far from an ineluctable truth."

Curious, she asks further, "And what is that truth?"

"That humans inevitably live to fight in nature," he reiterates, a faint, worn simper ghosting on his lips. "It is not just the endless sequence of wars between clashing cultures though conflicts do exists even in the most harmless of disagreements. May it be because a society is separated through different castes or you disliked someone's opinion. You may even find yourself in constant conflict against yourself. We fight for different reasons, in different circumstances. These things, they're natural and flawed though when you think about it, it's what makes us human."

 _Human . . ._

When she remembers fighting that time with the slaves, she does not feel human.

She feels . . . different.

Inhuman, maybe? She doesn't know.

She wants to disagree but that does not stop her from keeping her mouth quelled. It is not of importance anyway. He still has a point after all.

Seneca can only utter, "I see . . . "

She offers him a moment of privacy in his luncheon lest her endeavors in reserving his strength becomes fruitless. Thankfully, he is even eating something. Just before she opts to leave, her eyes curiously catches sight of a hardbacked book as her fingers trace its bold characters. She reads it, no longer mouthing the words like she used to. Piqued, her head tilts to the side and her brows creep up to her forehead.

 _Tronje, The Land of Light._

Finally deciding to take hold of it, she cradles it on her small palms and begins to read irrespective of her master's permission or rebuke of the matter. She flips a page, absorbing each word and phrase in a fast pace.

Tronje is the oldest country located on the southwest corner of the continent, scoping an immense expanse of forests and plains and a chain of mountains and hills riddled with veins of gold and silver. Aside from folktales among their elderly, it is said to be a sacred land among the Tron men as the flatlands thrive from two great rivers, Ebro and Tagus, both of which sinuate around the country. The mountain ranges of Pyrene fences around its territory, further separating it from northern countries. Tronje is divided into four states; Lusitani, Callaecia, Baeturia, and Tartessus, which are ruled by four tetrachs.

Although Tronje is abundant in wealth and fertile lands, these components have made its people secluded and narrow-minded of the world beyond their country regarding foreign intervention as a plausible threat to its national stability since its ruling authorities are cognizant of the superpowers in the continent, Parthevia and Reim. Hence, the Tronje Wall is constructed in their territory as a defense and boundary to neighboring countries. In terms of trade and commerce, foreign contact is only limited to a few merchants from the east and Northern Cathargo, which has even had a slight influence and a port city in the island state, Tartessus. Ever since the start of the Reiman-Cathargoan wars, Tronje has begun its campaign against Reim as an allied force of Cathargo, which is also its crucial constituent in trade, soon acknowledging the country for its belligerence in warfare.

She delves deeper on the book, assimilating the knowledge of its script.

"Hm, Tronje also used to be a confederation of tribes," she remarks aloud in interest, still reading. "Like Imuchakk."

This rivets Naevius's attention. Grilling her from his gaze, he regards her questioningly. "How did you learn of Imuchakk's confederacy?"

"Oh, I read Sinbad's narratives."

Sighing under his breath, he frowns at the name. Grimaces almost. It is quite a peculiar reaction because they do seem to have a fairly cordial relationship in the past. "You do know that boy tends to exaggerate, right?"

Exaggeration may be an understatement, she thinks.

"Mhmm," she recalls that one section in the story where one of his companions turns into a gigantic beast with six horns above his head, large fangs, and takes a body of dragon with limbs of a lion and a tail of a snake while he whips thunderbolts in a whim whenever he is enraged. Of course, this is just a misinterpretation of Ja'far. Then again, she has managed to read the unedited version of the narrative, which is thoroughly rectified and proofread, before it is ever published. "But it could be informative."

He just stares at her with that unconvinced glare in his eyes.

Shrugging, she adds, "Sometimes."

Either way, for all the nonsensicality he writes in his narratives they are still an entertaining read. She will not fully appreciate them for their small inaccuracies and lack of seriousness over time but she will applaud them for his imagination.

"But there is one thing that bothers me," she says. "Tronje turned into a tetrachy."

"Why so?"

"The four tetrachs came from the most prominent tribes," she recites, still perturbed. "But there are five prominent tribes and I don't understand why Astures can't rule as another sovereign."

A smile touches his lips. "It's not written there, isn't it?"

"No."

"That's your answer."

She looks at him. "I don't like riddles, Navi."

"Not a riddle at all, little one. It's fairly comprehensible, obvious even," he enthuses, his voice lofty and knowing. "After all, one needs to sharpen their wit lest it dulls,"

"Spoonfeeding will only spoil you. Besides, it wastes that intellect you pride so much."

Seneca pouts at the remark, disliking his patent amusement of the matter. She doesn't like the extra work, is such a thing wrong? _Besides having someone else do the work for you is so much better_ , is what she wants to reply but she does not contest either way. "It's not written . . ." she glares on the pages with concentrated, narrowing eyes, as if she is expecting for the answer to pop out before her. "Then . . . they're not acknowledged?"

"Yes," Naevius says, which makes her ears perk in interest. "It's a matter of politics. A maneuver,"

"Unbeknownst to foreigners beyond their walls, there is a great power struggle between Lusitani and Astures in terms of territory. Lustani claims their right to rule the land from inheritance while Astures claims that Lustani no longer respects their old traditions and that they have long since tended the land and have been under their service as the brunt of their armies thus wanting to take over," he explains. "Eventually, it ended in a pact after years of civil war."

She questions, "If there is a pact, how could there still be a power struggle?"

"Pacts are often done out of desperation. Think of what they've lost and the debts that come along with it. Their armies, supplies, and expenses, and the young men they've sent to fight for their battles," he annotates, probably speaking his thoughts aloud at this point. "Of course, agreements were made but with a hidden grudge. While Astures is generally far more superior in terms of strength and combat, Lustani devised a precaution in fear of an insurrection."

She closes in on him, paying attention at the words about to spill from his mouth as she is left in deep anticipation.

"They thought of blackening their reputations. Using their known strength against them. Painting them as thieves and criminals."

Her brows furrow. "But wouldn't this sort of tactic anger Astures more than pacify them? Shouldn't it incite them to take action?"

Pleased, he smiles at her analysis. "If you look at it from the perspective of other powerful men afar," his finger taps at the map next to the book, pointing on the three other states. "Committing such action would only prove that those false rumors are true. If they intend to start another war, the odds aren't going to be in their favor."

Her eyes pulse wide. "It's to severe their connections with their potential allies."

His smile broadens. "Or to simply put it, _weaken_ them."

Having been struck with realization, Seneca stares back at the book. _And just by means of knowledge . . ._

Once she looks up, she finds her master possessing the same intrigued expression on his bearings. That certain brightness in his eyes is not without a calculating edge. His pointer finger taps enthusiastically. Leaning on the table, he gazes back at the map and puts a marker, a red stone from his table, positioning it on Lusitani. "I believe I should thank you for that one," he tells in a genteel tone, but she can tell a certain thrill hidden in his voice. "You gave me a rather interesting strategy."

She blinks. It will appear that the both of them gained something today.

* * *

"Have I met you before?"

Muu cannot identify the man but there is something familiar about him that he cannot pinpoint. At first, he thinks it is his brown hair which curls above his brow with that drab headscarf girdling around it like a band, but perhaps he mistakes him for another person. From his countenance, he believes he is amongst his contemporaries but he is quick to object his speculation once he inspects him thoroughly enough to notice something seems off. He does not look like the part, certainly not with that graceless posture and those lax features, but he _feels_ older.

Nonchalantly, the man in question does not bother to look up at him, still sharpening his sword on his lap. "Don't believe so, m'lord," he replies, not even standing to bow after recognizing him as a highborn man. "Is there something you want?"

"You know," Muu utters. "Who I am?"

Ceasing his actions, he glances at him. There is something about his dark eyes that he does not particularly like or trust. It reminds him of Seneca's indecipherable eyes. "Muu Alexius," he grins viciously. "The _Fanalis_ Alexius. Half, that is."

His utterance feels like it is meant to insult him. Muu is not the sort to boil over a ridicule or to succumb to his temper but the mention of his Fanalis blood, especially in such manner, has always gotten underneath his skin. His glare at him darkens. "That tone of yours," he accuses in a low voice. "I can punish you for insulting an aristocrat, pleb."

Unaffected, the insolent man shrugs and stands, offering a bow. It looks insincere. "Oh? Then my apologies, m'lord."

Muu takes a grudging step forward.

A hand rests on his shoulder. "Alexius, calm down."

Familiar of the voice, Muu cranes his neck in surprise, not expecting to come across the sight of blond hair and gray eyes. Tiberius Caepius' intervention is unnecessary since he has resolved to conclude the matter by his own hands though, perhaps, it is the wisest course of action as well that should be dealt by the Optio's trusted discernment.

With widened eyes, Muu mutters, "Caepius . . . "

Like the pragmatical man that he is, Caepius cuts to the chase. "This is Lucius Priscus," he introduces in his casual, lackluster tone, his long face somber without charm. "He'll be staying on our tent from now on in replacement for Gnaeus."

Taken back by such upsetting news, Muu defends passionately, "His illness couldn't have gotten—"

"It has gotten worse," Caepius rends his sentence short, preventing him from wasting his breath to reason what is already reckoned insoluble and pointless. "He's too unfit to fight, even more so to stay within the camp. He's been stationed away, just rightfully so. The risk of having an epidemic from an unknown fever is not worth staking for."

Muu winces from the coarseness of his tone and the utter lack of compassion in it. He wishes he has worded it in a more nicer tone, knowing Gnaeus is still the colleague they shared a tent with and not some harbinger of disease that should be disposed of.

Yet no matter how phlegmatic it is executed, it is expectantly mandatory pushing behind all sentiments of camaraderie. A threat will be treated as a threat, he supplies. Caepius always keeps messages like such in a clear, matter-of-fact, and piercingly professional temperament as possible, hardening those that are tender of heart, deterring the slightest thought of unneeded poignancy. His unappealable nature has offended him if not most men though what compensates for it is his levelheadedness in affairs, which ironically he does not even acknowledge.

"I believe you two should make amends," Caepius prompts, sending them both a reproaching glare. "And there shan't be any 'm'lord' or name calling under my supervision. We're soldiers. We live, we kill, and we die. No man is higher or lower than the other on the battlefield. Understood?"

Priscus relents but he looks far too aloof to comprehend the depth of his words. Sucking them in like air and then exhaling them out from his nostrils. It does not affect him in the slightest, which in turn Muu regards with envy.

Muu digests his advice all the while feeling a harsh blow to his ego. He is an aristocrat, so is Caepius, yet having to be aware of that realization renders him at a loss of words, having the slight whim to lick his wounds. Pride is what he stands up for, what has gotten him in the battlefield in the first place. It is what he only has to redeem himself worthy of the Alexius name. To be great and worthy, that is all he wants.

Not a moment too soon, they respond in unison, "Yes."

Caepius gives a nod of approval. "Good," he remarks. "The both of you can return back to your previous obligations."

Then his eyes, like that of cruel pieces of steel, lands on him. "Except for you Alexius," he says as if recalling a memorandum. "General Augustus would want to have a word with you."

Muu can only acquiesce the order.

—

"So," Naevius drawls, devoting his attention on stacking the sheaf of paper scrawls on his table and then riffling through the sheets in meticulous concentration. His crystalline blue eyes lands on him in a languid motion, a slight flicker of intimacy within them. "Augustus will engage in conflict tomorrow?"

In a solid and disciplined stance, Muu affirms, "Indeed."

Tucking a lock of flaxen hair behind his ear, Naevius shrugs flippantly. "I'd like to personally wish him my best regards but I've been heavy-handed recently."

Clearing his throat, Muu suggests, "Shall I send him your regards then?"

"It isn't necessary," Naevius shakes his head. "That brute is better off without sentiments."

Muu tamps the urge to sigh in disapproval, trying to maintain the image of propriety. His cousin has always spoken in a harsh tongue, snubbing the opinions of those who may regard him in disdain upon uttering aloud his rather, often times sardonic, blunt thoughts.

As Naevius leans his cheek on his knuckles, a smile curves his lips, as if lost in a memory, but the edges lack the softness or sentimentality that should have been there or the wry exuberance he usually sports. It is offhanded and amused, boyish almost. Natural. Something which he has reserved for awhile. His fingers sloshes the dark vintage, letting the coppery sheen of his goblet glint against the lamplight.

Releasing a soft sigh, Naevius speculates him critically and affects a frown in his direction. "Muu, there's no need to be so stiff. You're in the privacy of my tent and there is just the two of us," he says, chiding him, but his voice has grown lax and less coarse. "Do me a favor, won't you? Slacken those shoulders."

Blinking, Muu feels a jar of confliction tug at him between dedication and familiarity. He keeps his composure still for awhile however the latter wins over his favor once his shoulders flag and his arms drop to his sides. Somehow, the sensation feels like a fresh breath of air from all those days of brutal discipline and severe training, combat and behavior alike. He abides for the time being but he refuses to be treated like a guest.

Since he has been granted with liberties, Muu voices out his opinion, "I don't really think you should speak so informally to General Augustus out loud," he searches for the reconsideration in his monitoring gaze. "If I were any soldier, I might as well have considered you disrespectful regardless that the both of you are kin."

Naevius simply arches his brow, not very fond of being reminded. He lifts a halfhearted shrug. "Well, you're not like any other soldier," his lips quirk in amusement, spilling out an easy chuckle. "Perhaps, that's why he sent you as a messenger."

His cousin laughs again and Muu cannot help but agree to his statement with a weary sigh. For a moment, he commends Augustus's decisions. A brute he may be - in some ways - but he is no fool. Especially not when he can predict his fellow cousin's temperament and audacity.

"I haven't visited your mother before I left," Naevius broaches, his eyes softening. "I had hoped to bring her poppy flowers."

Muu stiffens at the mention of his mother, knowing the first person to come into his mind is not his dark-haired step-mother but a young woman with crimson hair and gentle eyes. In a heartbeat, flashes of images from the past rekindle, memories of his youth when days were brighter and warmer and untouchable. The ones so difficult to ebb from his chest for each one is filled with unadulterated longing, from a child to his mother.

Muu swallows the lump on his throat. Those affectionate instances, the delicate feelings harbored in them, fade like vapor upon being haunted by the scent of poppies and fresh grass and the sight of cold marble walls of a mausoleum atop a small hill within their estate, an olive tree looming over it. Summer days bathe her grave with brilliant light, as if to warm the empty tomb within it, turn nothing into flesh. His mother's body isn't there, he knows. Only her likeness in stone resides in there and it pales in comparison with the woman in his dreams.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, he steels himself, buries the ache in depths no one can fathom. Thinking of his nails biting on his palm and not of the dead. "It's always been tended under my father's orders," Muu looks at him, unhindered with emotion. "Clean. The last time I came there, just before I enlisted, it was clean like it should be."

Naevius asks for reassurance, "And the vase?"

"Filled with fresh poppy flowers."

Naevius nods in approval, no longer parting him with words of gratitude. His smile is softer, rueful. His blue eyes, made brighter by the fading light, smolder. This, it is that rare momentum he allows himself to crumble from his emotions. His mother, Maia, means so much to him— she always has.

Muu takes a hesitant step forward. "Could she . . . have approved of my decision?"

"No, she wouldn't," Naevius says with a proud grin. "She would have supported you all throughout."

Muu breathes in. Intakes his words. "I always remembered her but I still know so little of who she was," he admits, baring some part of himself. "I remember you always visited her and she to you. You were her closest confidant, even more than father ever was. She, my mother . . . was more than just a friend to you, wasn't she?"

She _was_ once his cousin's nursemaid, watching him grow up from his troubled youth. The one who changed him for the better. His friend. More than that. Perhaps, his everything. That yearning present in him is sad and familiar and mutual. Muu shares it too, understands the weight of it in his chest. The pain of her absence. He knows that much. He knows because she told him once— because he can see what she did to him, molding him into a great man.

"Indeed," Naevius imparts his answer from silent reflection. "One day, perhaps. If we come out of this war alive, I'll tell you more about her."

Naevius sends him a placid smile, letting his emotion sink, sousing it down with cool alcohol. He sighs as if he has tapered off a few perturbing musings of his own. After a few intervals, he composes his stature and pours two goblets with wine. "Shame, my cupbearer isn't here to bring us more wine. That impudent brat," he mutters to himself and then reaches the other goblet to him. "Take it."

Flailing his hands, Muu balks, "I don't think—"

"Pah! Discipline be damned," Naevius prompts the sweet ale, the scent of intoxication beckoning. "No one will know. Might as well have a cup of your own. I insist."

His cousin is a bad influence, he confirms.

Reluctant, Muu accepts the goblet and drinks the wine in one swallow. His tongue is greeted with a tang of tartness in the wine's sweet taste, which is a nice combination of dark, aged, and velvety. Far better than the sour-bitter wine he has consumed from formal social gatherings back at Remano. He only takes another small sip to show his appreciation and ceases finishing it all in fear of being redhanded through its cloyingly odorous smell on his mouth. He returns the goblet to his table, some part of him wanting to consume the rest of it.

"I remember enlisting in the legion when I was in your age," Naevius tells him with a hint of a smile, slightly inebriated. "Although unlike Augustus and you, I wasn't the best soldier out there— I was god-awful, honestly. I might as well have been a middling soldier. Perhaps, the only thing I was good at was snitching the wine from the supplies and stashing them without reach. And my associates often wondered then why I reeked of alcohol."

"But you were also chosen as a military tribune when you were eighteen, right?" Muu contradicts fervently. "You did many things! You made strategies for Reim that led the Cathargoans to a crushing defeat."

His lips crook into a bitter smile. His hold on his goblet tightens. "Yes, I did."

Blinded by his curiosity and admiration, he does not notice his growing bile to the subject. Dismissing the sudden darkness in his glare, Muu pries with attentive eyes, "So what was it like? Confronting the infamous brothers Hanno and Balhan?"

Hesitant to speak at first, Naevius considers, forgiving him subtly, and begins to explain. "The rumors told about them aren't overstated as I thought. Formidable and menacing, that's what they were. The both of them fought like one man, the other like his half," something makes him stop immediately, almost as if recounting the memory still serves as a grave matter which is better left unsaid. "But you know how the story went. Really now, don't praise the past so much, the present is deserving of that attention."

Naevius swigs his wine to the last drop. He points his eyes at him, permeating in his mind effortlessly.

"Are you afraid of the upcoming battle?"

"No."

"That'll get you killed," is his remark, cutting and clipped. "Learn to fear death. Soldier or not, it'll help you live a little longer."

Muu looks down in thought. "I'll keep that in mind," he acknowledges, nodding after. "I thank you for your time. If I may be excused?"

"I told you no formalities, Muu," Naevius reminds but holds out a hand. "You could leave if you want. There's no need for my permission."

With a salute, he marches out of his tent. Rewinding the advice given to him in his head.


	6. Act II: 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi**

* * *

" _She's dead."_

Muu runs towards the gloaming dark, an impending doom awaiting him in the distance. Yet a shred of hope is beckoning him, replenishing his browbeaten spirit to dive forth, delving onto the truth beneath the thick walls of lies that lurk within the unfathomable expanse of the Great Rift. He has traveled relentlessly for fifteen days and fifteen nights in an almost outmatched resilience, stopping only for short-lived requisites. He is about fourteen, old enough for an unaccompanied expedition, three years late in his search for his mother's disappearance.

" _She's gone, don't you understand, child?"_

His mind is as hard as steel and as sharp as blades and he will not falter. He can no longer count the minutes, the days or weeks that has come to pass, but he does not cease running, even if his heart begins to waver by an inch. Starvation does not faze him, even when the last of his provisions have emptied long ago, for the hunger of something far more profound and nostalgic, a natural yet unnatural bond, lies behind the murk— he will cast it with light if he has to. Not even the warnings of a magi will impede him.

Perspiration bathes his strained muscles, coating his skin in a thin layer of numbing cold. Though the heat in him remains, thriving in adrenaline and fervency. The pain throbs, real and harsh, and it sears in the wounds. The flesh under his feet tear and blister, bleeding sopping trails, as he runs through a sea of sharpened rocks. It does not concern him just as much for it does not par with the sting of the other highborn scions' baiting and the servants' gossips of the repulsing Fanalis blood in his veins or the words of his father with that grim and severe look upon his eyes.

It does not even come close to the vile rumors circulating about his mother, of how he tries so hard to unearth the black-stained lies to truth, to erase the words beast woman and murderer and slut in her name. She is none of that, never that. He will avenge her gradually, punishing the plebeians through the flog, humiliating a patrician in public, putting up a charming smile to persuade those hearsays are false, thus silencing them in submission.

But it can never surmount the yearning of his brethren—the distinguishable pining of belonging—and this search, he knows, can grant that wish. Somewhere out there, within these vast miles of land, he knows _she_ is in that side of the world, waiting, seeking for him too.

" _She's dead, Muu."_

"S-she's _not_ dead," Muu refuses still, in between pants for low-ventilated air. His mother is a _Fanalis_ and one of their kind simply cannot be killed by falling off a cliff by the sea. She is steel made flesh, all Fanalis are. A day before the grave tidings of her 'death', she has come to his quarters that one faithful night in tears as she has gratified him a parting embrace. _One day will meet again, my little cub_ , she has whispered in his ear, intimate and sad. _I love you, all of you. Remember that, please._ Then she has kissed his forehead, leaving in haste, taking all her warmth with her. Too drowsy from his sleep, he has never understood from that day on that his mother vanished for good.

He closes his eyes shut, bottling his own regrets within before it has a chance to spill out. He keeps running and running towards the unknown. _Why didn't I try to stop you? Why did you have to leave?_ He looks up only to see a chasm of darkness, hopeless. _Mother, why did you have to disappear?_

He set his course in approximation, a destination his heart only knows. His sane mind warns him that further away is the land of death. But his ache wins him over, and as he draws close, he feels as light as a feather, soaring in his paces, his legs swelling with great power, as if the tethers of the surface world has rusted and snapped. A strange beast, that is he. A beast with skin like steel, deep crimson like smelted metal on flames. Power overflows within in him in abundance, a fire growing inside, and it feels right. No one controls him here; he is free and wild. There afar, it is pulsing with life and warmth, that it hurt so much.

That he knows this is where he belongs, in a place so familiar and attracting yet so horrifying.

The burden weighs tenfold and he collapses upon it, before the presence of these ancient beasts he calls kin.

Eventually he gives in, prostrating in the ground in heavy gasps. He can no longer hear Yunan's words when he has spared him from the sight, from the ineludible pull of it. An image of a woman projects in his mind, smiling at him lovingly, reaching forth a hand. Come to me, she says. And he wants to grasp that hand, feel the blood beneath her palms, but she disappears again once he falls into a lapse of darkness.

" . . . she can't be."

.

.

.

"— _Alexius_."

Muu blinks from his daze.

"Did you oversleep? You've been daydreaming since we've marched out."

Priscus— well, _Lucius_ —as he insists to be called—pokes a questioning eye at him. For a moment, he feels more thankful than chagrined. If not for his intervention, his mind might have distanced away from reality. From the _battle_ , he corrects. Then it occurs to him why he has been feeling adrift lately. It isn't like he lacked sleep last night, since he isn't really assigned on watch duty, or have overslept as his associate points out, but ever since his confrontation with his cousin—

Lucius clears his throat, drawing his attention.

"Sorry," Muu mumbles, keeping his stance rigid and uniform like the man next to him. "Must have overslept."

Lucius does not look particularly convinced, probably knowing his belated excuse is no more but a blatant lie. He shrugs and averts his eyes, dedicating his attention to a far more interesting specimen to gawk to his liking.

Muu mirrors his actions, his eyes flicking in conscious vigilance at the terrain. Nothing truly snares his interest - not that there should be - aside from the early preparations hours ago, where the soldiers rove about their campsite, weapons are sharpened and disposed for the upcoming battle, and the mobility runs rampant. Movement pacifies his nerves, makes him think clearly.

Though nothing compares to the profile of his cousin under the pre-dawn day. General Augustus Alexius is the very paragon of a prodigious warrior. Many stories revolve around his name for his valiance and ruthlessness, lauded in songs from bards as far as the Parthevian coasts. As early as the age of thirty-five, he has been dubbed the Hero of Maurenia and Stormbringer during the Cathargoan war and is the youngest to take the mantle of a general.

Muu remembers how he carries himself with confidence and dignity as he is mounted up on a fine warhorse. His sharp eyes, dark blue like a storm, lance through their hardened hearts, a tremor of respect and fear wedging within them, and as he speaks, nothing else feels more reassuring than the knelling sound of his voice echo in their silence, terrible and revere and inspiring. The voice of a born leader, that's what his men felt— what he believes and aspires.

As he stands still, he gazes up to see the sun has yet to rise, leaving the sky under the mercy of a cluster of hazes, which rolls down the plains, even the hilltops, in a thin shroud of fog. The Tron climes are a little too cold, just as raw and pale as its dawn. He represses a shiver. The bite from the morning chill is less forgiving on his skin. Despite his peeves, the morning remains pure and unimpressionable; its gentle winds whispering of calm and almost a promise of ominosity.

Per mandate of their general, they have halted from the dirt road, where the banks are located from their right. High forested hills flank their left wing, which in turn should block entry for the enemy within the defile. The fog may more or less benefit them to their strategic advantage, he surmises. Either way, such a minuscule thing does not deter the legion even if it is a threat.

The third legion is appointed to rid of the skirmish force—which from what he has heard is believed to be two-thousand to three-thousand infantry with an additional one-thousand cavalrymen, outnumbered by their forces by two to one—and is stationed in line of ten divisions, all in their standard formations, along with the cavalry from the legion's rear.

As they lay waiting he cannot deny the scent of iron and adrenaline in the air. His ears perk from the sound of slow marching afar, about a mile away, and then a grave anticipation, as it comes naturally, rushes in his system in pinprick shocks, overwhelming his taut muscles, pumping blood to his heart. The thrill of the fight, almost distinctly animalistic, tingle in his fingers.

Sound spares him from his maddening apprehension, the brassy, guttural cornets bellowing the enemy's arrival. It is the first blow of the horns that heralds their movement frontwards, shifting their formation—a division of three with a rearguard—in an overlapped column toe-to-toe against their divisions. The second blow for raising shields and maneuvering spears in the offensive. The third blow feels like a howl, a battle cry, as the vanguard charges on to clash against the Tron men, spears against long swords.

Each whistle blow from the centurion as the men switch positions from the frontlines keeps his heart racing, alert and anticipative and ready. As his turn comes, he finally fights, raising his shield from each blow, impaling Tron men with his spear, ringing from each clash. It is kill or be killed, simple as that. Muu maintains his place, restricting the savage urge to tear a man with his _bare hands_. The Fanalis blood in him courses through his veins, boiling hot.

From the corner of his eye, a woman soldier lunges at him, her arms raising her blade high for a swing. He positions himself to counter the blow, delayed, but before her blade can strike at him— her throat is cut clean by a spear, her blood spraying on his face, and drops along with the other trampled corpses. He looks at his right to see Lucius giving him a wink.

Lucius just smirks, running a spear through a man's chest and kicking his body away. "You owe me that one, Alexius."

Muu nods with a slight smile. He notices another soldier about to charge at Lucius with a battle ax, and with quick reflexes, he swipes a dagger from his belt and throws it at a headshot, the powerful force of impact plunging the assaulter's body backwards. Lucius cocks a brow at him.

Muu shrugs cheekily. "Now we're even."

Another whistle rivets his attention, their regiment retreating back, replaced with a fresh regiment behind them. Muu intakes a long breath, sucking in the stench of blood and sweat and metal from his nostrils. Unbearable still, as it clings to his armor, his hands, his face.

He remembers the woman soldier, the bright orange hair beneath her headgear and her delicate pale throat sliced. He touches his face and pulls his hand back hesitantly to inspect the fresh smear on his fingers, as crimson as his mane. It troubles him somehow, even if she is a soldier. Even if he didn't kill her. He hasn't seen a woman in the battlefield before. The image of this woman, who could have been someone's wife or mother, disturbs him. He should have been desensitized from the trauma of gore and violence long since. Death is inevitable after all. Many people die from the field, from the sword on their hands to the doom of their aspirations.

Though, the inevitability of who he is supposed to kill is what thrusts him in a spiral of dismay, an unsatisfying reality. He can kill anyone and get away with it, with the mounts of bodies of men and women and children weighing upon his shoulders. Everyday, haunting him. And for the sake of his country and a truly selfish goal.

His hand curls in tight, clenching, quivering. Ambition leads him in deep water, but there is no action in this world without consequence. Backing his spirit with resolution, he opens his hand and gazes at the bloodstain with smoldering eyes. He will not falter, especially when he has chosen this path. No matter how cruel or vile, he has something to protect and achieve.

The battle prolongs for quite a time. He cannot count the minutes that has progressed but the enemy is wearing down from their brunt, being pushed back and eliminated swiftly. Nearly finishing the small resistance in a final decisive assault.

But it is the sound of a horn that surprises them— a foreign horn from the hilltops.

His eyes pulse wide.

The soldiers rattle, clamoring.

"Asturians! Above!"

 _Astures._

Beneath the thin fog, behind the barks of trees and shrubbery, the Asturian contingents, in their discrete, fur-trimmed armor atop their wild horses, sweep down in a sortie, descending like hurling boulders to their forces with the strength of one. Muu slightly recoils from their attack to their westmost side; even his fellow soldiers are rebounded, some injured, others dead from contact. Another blow of their horns echoes aloud, ushering the remaining divisions to position themselves and prepare for battle. Their cavalry unit goes into action, opposing.

 _All this time_ , he thinks frantically. _All this time . . . could this be_ the _ambush_.

Outmanned and fatigued from their recent battle, Reim puts up a good stand though Tronje regains a little by each minute and the odds aren't doing them a favor. Muu sees the soldiers, _his countrymen_ , being executed from left to right, toppling each mangled corpse. He forces himself to still fight, to avenge those who have fallen in vain. Though something trembles in him, small and chilling— fear? He doesn't need fear. Not now. He wants to be brave.

But hopelessness grapples his heart and he isn't the only one who feels it.

"Stand on your ground!"

Augustus.

He follows his voice, catching the sight of him dismounting, picking up a shield, and joining the midsection of the legion in command, in control.

Proud, unyielding, dauntless. A man of power and confidence. General Augustus is _their_ leader— _their_ general and he fights back along with them without hesitation or fear to the death. He fights for them, for Reim—

"Don't let them push you back!"

It is then the third legion roars a war cry.

And they will not perish under his leadership. They _will_ live and triumph with him to the end.

Muu feels alleviation, reassurance, a newfound strength recoiling within him. He can feel it from the other soldiers too; their courage restored, their spirits heightened to its peak. There is movement in the legion, feet of thousands galvanizing to march forth. Not one man deserts their post as they coact in defeating the enemy forces, all ten divisions congregating together into one unit.

As Muu trudges forward, he stabs his spear on another man, flinging his hull to the side, but in a flash, a mountain of a man with an equally thick and enlarged sword slashes the head of his spear from its shaft in a single swing. He lunges at him, thrusting the tapered edge to his large hands, but his opponent dodges, maneuvers his sword, and charges on. He ducks in his shield from the blow, cracking its surface, and reaches for the sword on his hip, fingering the hilt.

His opponent persists in sending him with consistent blows, the force breaching holes on his battered shield. As the sharp end of his sword pierces through, Muu steps back with a gash near his brow. A little closer, his skull will have been stabbed. He notices Lucius's side glances, indicating him to settle this fight quickly. Not that Lucius is concerned, but he can tell that _do-it-already-I-don't-want-to-finish-off-this-giant-brute-if-you-die_ look from his eyes. Hiding, he still waits for the right momentum, his heels scraping back and digging deep on the dirt. As the delay makes the blows shallower, his opponent heaves a breath with each haul of his sword, turning into a routine. A routine he can take advantage.

Muu hears another pant, tailed by the swoosh of metal— and then he jabs his shield on his chin, earning a grunt. His foot moves with lightning speed, kicking his legs with crushing force. The mountain of a man yelps, the snap of his bent bones rendering him in pain. He then lurches forth, swiping his sword upwards, severing his head from his shoulders. The body tumbles down, blood oozing, squirting, from its headless corpse.

Then Muu sees Lucius witness his fight, speculating as if he has anticipated the outcome. His mouth is sealed shut but his silence has spoken in volumes. Those dark eyes, wide from shock yet still full of meaning and mystery, glare at him. He cannot tell what musings wind in his head, except for one; there is a hush voice in there and it whispers of _the strength of a magnificent beast_. The startled man then averts his eyes, spearing Tron soldiers in his wake, with a cold smile on his lips in the stead of a grimace. He decides to dismiss it.

The battle lags on, delaying enough for the legion to recuperate from the guerrilla attack. They are rebuffing the enemy, slowly getting the upper hand, when the familiar sound of horns bellow though it isn't from their horns or from the enemy's. It suspends both parties in deep confusion.

From the west end of the defile, the crimson banners of Reim brandish from the strong winds, along with the emblem of the seventh legion. General Pompeius, on horseback, raises his sword and motions it to the battlefield, ushering his legion to battle. The reinforcements, although delayed and unannounced, aids in putting the bloodshed into a conclusion. Not that they need it when they can end the battle themselves and emerge from it victoriously.

Regardless, fate decides that Reim will triumph.

* * *

 _Clack_. The sound recurs within the tent in intervals, an almost cutthroat determination surfacing beneath each placement of ivory and black stone pieces on the board. Naevius regards their fair contention in Latrones with manifest aplomb and relish. To foist someone as obstinate as Augustus in playing a game of strategies, he gesticulates a grin, one that is amused and sated from boredom. No rival equals with his competence in the game, excluding his cousin who has contrived intuitive and arbitrary yet deliberate moves in the play; somewhat competing against his intellect and apt skill. It is the reason why contending with him appeals him in a way.

"That was a very bold move, I must say. You were at the brink of reaching a stalemate if you didn't take the lead," Naevius moves an ivory piece, the click profound. "Still risky, though. You could have died in the frontlines for resorting to such front but having to bolster your legion's morale is rather impressive to say the least."

Naevius recollects the tidings of the battle in the quorum early this morning, his attention locking on the general of the third legion. Even as a man of nobility, his armor of polished steel and cavalry leather far suits him more, glistening in the stead of purple robes and jewels. Having been tended and freshened, Augustus still has smelled of blood and earth like perfume and his countenance, still radiating with asperity, has been drawn with worn and humble lines as if having to report their deprivations left a bad taste in his tongue. He is not be surprised of his sullenness; the man simply detests staking his men due to failures.

Albeit being deeply bemused of other precarious matters, his perception has yet to wander off too far from the vying company of overbearing generals and the string of spurned murmurs under their breaths, spewing foulness like bile. Labeling the Tron men as mad dogs and barbarians and suggesting their executions—and if rejected, their fate is to be divided amongst the soldiers as spoils—then trivial nonsense and whatnot, and it does not take long to hear his name in their vitriol. Ah, then he remembers why he awfully hates being part of the military.

Plucking his black Dux, Augustus reproves, "My men are still culled out in number," he takes his turn to move the significant piece. "Half injured, some dead. I take responsibility in that debacle and their lives, Naevius. Perhaps, it was the wisest choice to wait for the enemy until the damned fog has gone."

"But it was wise to take immediate action," Naevius contradicts. "The predicament demands a quick, decisive victory, as there are no viable actions to consider. Hesitation will be seen as weakness. Promptness insured a certain conclusion, however delay would simply entail more losses for our part,"

Naevius moves an ivory piece with knowing confidence. "A great example will be that retarding sluggard, Pompeius," he says in unswerving, measured tones, his words betraying the civil amiableness of his disposition. "If he has time to spare for bragging, he would have done excellently in actually aiding you in the battle on time. Less honorable men would have been slain. Blaming a wounded cavalryman who asked for reinforcements for his delay is a lousy excuse, who would even believe that drivel? The defile isn't even that far off."

Augustus stamps his black stone piece, a heavy thud resounding after.

" _Naevius_ ," his voice lowers into a grumble, perfecting that rebuking tone that can make a man flinch. But Naevius isn't like any other man for he is unaffected with his intimidations ever since their adolescence. "Maybe General Pompeius didn't deserve the credit just as much though he still fought. Although I'm tolerating your lose tongue in my tent, I best suggest you reserve these opinions of yours to yourself. You've only raised disdain with most of the generals in the quorum! It's _inexcusable_ and you know it."

His blue eyes roll in response, earning a scowl from his cousin. Naevius moves another piece. "Oh please, cousin. Do stop chastising, you sound like your father," he retorts, the mordancy of his voice blatant and cutting. "Prideful ignoramuses will get defensive with the smallest criticism, which is true by fact. Although I do admit there's a bit derision in it, I _still_ spoke of the truth. Praising a sluggard isn't even worth a whit of respect."

His broad shoulders squaring, Augustus sighs hotly as he folds his arms. "For a man with unparalleled genius, you are by far the most reckless fool I've ever met. Damn, you can make enemies in your wake with that tone of yours."

"For one thing, I take no pleasure in making enemies but I simply cannot stand dealing with a bunch of ignoramuses."

"Mind your tongue, cousin. Those ignoramuses are well reputed generals of Reim."

"Indeed," he reiterates in blithe nonchalance. "Well reputed and senile ignoramuses."

Augustus arches a brow, eyes pointing menacingly at him.

Naevius lifts a halfhearted shrug. "Well, of course, not all of them," he smirks wickedly. "Most of the time."

His ears perk at the sound of a _chink_ ; his cousin's thumb flips the well-crafted hilt of his blade from his hip. His hotheadedness and proneness to violence is a renowned personality of his and who knows better about it than he. If Naevius still has the gall to further rile this brute of a man, he will have been no different from a battered idiot. He wags his finger. "Ah, ah. No violence, please," he placates his temper at bay, still wearing his pleased smile. "What makes you different, cousin, is the fact that you're a good listener,"

Naevius leans on his palm, fingering his pearl-white Dux to tip back. "They will charge on for the fight and the glory and spoils that come with it but won't heed the advice of another," before the piece is bent plunging downwards, he ceases his prodding letting it stand firm in its place. Shaking his head in disapproval, he sighs. "Who has more sense than their stubborn minds could ever have."

"Is that a compliment for me," Augustus questions, ever skeptical and incisive. "Or for yourself?"

"Whatever works," Naevius shrugs, beaming with smug cheek. "I'm fine with both."

Augustus frowns in warning. The scar marred on his cheek creases down from the expression. "Naevius," he sets his hand down on the table, an authoritative gesture. Very Ignatius-like to his taste, but Naevius tamps the urge mentioning the comparison. "Don't mistake me for not having faith in you and I did not speak of such to stroke your ego but for the purpose of encouraging you to go through with what you've set for yourself. You're a smart man, the smartest man I know, and one thing is certain,"

His dark hair does not hinder his sharp eyes glaring at him, full of vehement urgency. "You have Tronje fighting against you on the front," he reminds. "The least thing you should you do is stir bad blood against those behind your back."

Naevius musters enough tolerance to repress an annoyed snort, well aware that his advice is one to regard seriously.

He sighs in defeat. "Fine."

He moves another piece, cornering his coal-black Dux in the game.

"Ah, and you've lost."

Augustus stands abruptly, poking his nose on the board, sputtering in disbelief. "Wha— how did I even—"

Naevius tips his chin arrogantly and chuckles. "Simple, really," he states brazenly, grinning from ear to ear. "You pay little attention to your pieces. Really now, Augustus, you've grown to be a very tedious player."

Mocking him is certainly an unwise move for his part, especially when the last time they have played Latrones the man has flipped the table from his temper with a sword in hand, hollering demands for a fair sword duel. Though he still does it anyway, amused of whatever outburst he can recreate. Whenever is it boring with Augustus? He might as well be a sensation in the making.

He appears like he is about to succumb into a fit but suppresses it before it unfolds in all its furious hysteria. Sighing in vexation, he sits down and crosses his arms. A huff leaves his glouting lips.

"This game displeases me."

"Very blunt," Naevius remarks, patronizing. "For a man who advises me to silence my own opinions. It's contradictory, don't you think?"

"You don't see me making enemies with ivory and black stone."

"Point taken."

"Either way, I think you should be blunt," he intones. "General Pompeius stole your victory from that skirmish yesterday."

"The guerrilla assault was unanticipated," Augustus explains matter-of-factly, although not wholly relenting to the cause as a warranted reason for the general in question to cheat the victory from his legion. "Though whenever has Tronje not resorted to such strategy? The Asturians are of no exception to it, knowing they're still mountain raiders and that they despise Reimans."

Tronje is quite notorious for their guerrilla style of fighting, even if these men come in army units, and their fast, deadly modes in combat, ascertaining victory in the battleground through hasty, well-calculated sorties, especially when mounted since it gives them that leverage. Almost alike to the lethal style of fighting with the infamous Kouga clan from the eastern lands. Whereas Reim adapts a more uniform and offensive approach in combat, advantageous through time lagging battles and its vicious blows, Tronje contrasts and clashes evenly, having the slight upper hand in terms of terrain and furtive incursions.

Naevius surveys the board, observing the black stone Dux cornered in its spot. He considers the many theories and alternatives that has occurred during that battle, even if those circumstances has made a lot of sense. Though if something does feel amiss, it cannot escape his weather eye.

He says, "Tell me about the skirmish force."

Not anticipating his response, Augustus complies either way. "A force of four-thousand. In my opinion, they're too short in men for an inroad and too simple to push aside. It did not take long for them to shorten in number."

"Which makes it rather convincible for the unexpected ambush of the Asturian contingents," Naevius comments, still dubious. "But why would they intrude belatedly? If it was an organized ambush, they would have not prolonged the attack if the battle is already shortening them in number. I find it coincidental."

His brow arches curiously. "You're saying it wasn't an ambush?"

"It was an ambush. There's a reason why Tron men were stationed in our rear but for a different purpose, I believe, but I think, if possible, the Asturian contingents aren't really a part of it. If you see it in a different perspective, I think it could be possible that they coincidentally stumbled upon the battle or have heard about it. At least, enough for them to gather and prepare."

"Where would they have come from then?"

"Asturians are known mountain raiders. They don't live within the walls but they reside in the outskirts. It'll be natural for countrymen to save one of their own, even with a rather bitter past," Naevius fills in for him. "There's also the issue of using a spy. If the ambush is meant for something else and not for the purpose of luring the enemy, then they should have hidden themselves for no one to see them. Tron men know their terrain than all of us combined."

His eyes pulse wide at a possibility.

 _What if._

"The man who gave you that information," Naevius broaches, heeding him in slight concern and apprehension. "Search for him. Question him of his origins and if he is bribed to tell information."

His brow curves at him but there is consideration in his eyes. "That man did what he is bid," Augustus returns, yet he draws near him as if to share a conspiracy. From intuition, he is keen in comprehending his disturbances, almost predicting them, even when he schools his face into a collected facade. "But do you suppose this is an underhanded tactic by Tronje?"

"Perhaps," Naevius cups his chin, still ruminating of the subject. "But it seems too obvious and specific."

"What do you mean, Naevius?"

"It's as if that kind of strategy is meant to kill you," he looks at him, his fists clenching in response. It is someone else's scheme, a third party, and he fears the high chance that it can be one of their own. "I meant it, Augustus. Search for that man and question him. Torture him for answers, if you must."

Augustus can only gratify him a nod, trusting his counsel. "Then I'll take your words to consideration."

It is then Naevius gives him his biddings and excuses himself to leave, as his visit postpones too long. As he ushers himself out, he is greeted with both his aide and his pupil—who currently takes the role of boy cupbearer—and stands tall, as dignified as he should. Mintho is already whispering important news to him while covering his nose. Then again, the stench of decay and iron and sweltering bodies hurts his nostrils, the stink so wretchedly nostalgic. The humidity of the weather has been unforgiving for these men as the stench intensifies tenfold, almost nauseating beneath the heat.

His aide is worrying over his white robes being dragged on the ground, sullying the fabric with blood and dirt. It doesn't concern him one bit. He is a soldier once and minuscule trivialities do less to pester him. Yet as he treads, his attention is fully captivated by the Fanalis child with him. _Is this familiar to you too, Seneca?_

It is when they have returned to his tent that he excuses Mintho out, leaving him to his own devices, and drives himself in contemplation.

On the other hand, Seneca peers from the gap of the tent flap monitoring her surroundings—outside, men skitter about, busying themselves with the injured, their soldiers and the captured alike, towards the medical tents, all bearing the horrors of war from their scarred faces to their amputated limbs—though her gaze is not one full of curiosity or dread but one that is grave and sentient, as if laden of experience.

The child who dug graves, he remembers. He mulls of how many times she has seen the sight of a corpse, rotting and cut-open, in the open field, feasted by vultures high above, or when a brother is weeping for his missing sibling, one that has now parted from the living. How many times, hundreds? Thousands, maybe? If only to regard such things with calm apathy, that any sane man will want to have that sort of quality for himself. Her words echo still, words a child should never speak of.

 _People could only live and die_ , she has deadpanned from a small conversation. _Once you die it's over. Even if you live you still die. Killing is not the problem. It's dying. That's how it is here and it's always been normal_.

Gore and murder, violence and ruin, plunder and rape, all those sinful and wretched deeds, are what she regards _normal_ and it shall always remind him of his sins, of what he did. He cannot help but ponder how many children in Cathargo also has the misfortune of having her fate, one stolen with a decent childhood, from war— from his own doing. Cathargo, in the battlefield and the metropolis all blown away like ashes in the smog, can never regain back its once glorious grandeur because his strategies can't spare a life, because he can't stop them— it was their fault, _his_ fault as well.

He releases a sigh, concluding his meditation all at once. After all, regrets can never revive the dead back to life.

Nothing intrigues her red eyes, as they are stark and precocious. She just stares. "Navi, the rukh whisper to me," she speaks in a faint voice as her back is still turned against him. "They tell me secrets, memories of both living and dead. Sometimes, I hear their screams, their pleas . . . the battle took many lives again, like always. This isn't new to me, though."

She finally averts her heavy gaze outside and looks at him thoughtfully, at the rukh around him. "But wars cause misery in its wake," her head tilts, as if she has discovered something riveting. In him. "You know it too, and yet I couldn't understand why you engage in it if it displeases you."

Naevius sucks breath through his teeth. Her words strike a cord, reverberating deep within his soul. Coincidental yet utterly unnecessary. Why does she have to broach the matter of all times? "For an end I am willing to stake for," he answers in a solemn tone, unwavering. "Freedom."

His bargain for his services from Lady Scheherezade is freedom. Specifically, to no longer be a Reiman citizen and to be under her protection when he does complete his end. He could have just run away without a trace, but they will find him, question him, maybe even kill him if he poses as a threat. He still has his enemies after all. This is the way out of that, the best one there is.

"That happens to be a very selfish end," she comments, blunt and tart. "It doesn't exactly justify the means."

"It's not meant to," he says, his eyes growing somber. "But, little one, is there not an act in this world that is not selfish?"

"Then what of the acts imposed for the sake of others?"

He simply shakes his head in negation and refutes, "Regardless of the matter, the choices we opt and the acts we make are solely grounded from self-interest which imposes us to commit it in the first place. Perhaps, the deed was done for the plight of others or from a selfish end though these actions is what defines us still," he pauses for a moment, maybe a minute, as a memory steals his attention. "And war is the most selfish act ever procured by men."

Her face is calm but indulgent and impartial. "That doesn't change the fact that you're still selfish," she quips, shrugging after. "But you make a good point. You paint a bad image of yourself and you didn't hesitate to further worsen it, but you're right."

Sighing, Naevius regains his composure. "Of course, I'm right."

"Oh, by the way," she adds shamelessly. "That just made you look more arrogant, Navi."

"You hold a loquacious tongue," he barbs, huffing at the thought. "Use it for the ears of another who is obliged to listen to your impertinence."

Seneca looks up, contemplating. "Hm, I'll think about that."

He clears his throat, turning pragmatical. "Setting that aside," he reiterates in a sophisticated voice, his hands lacing together. "I have a very important task I wish for you to do."

As she returns her attention back at him, he then warns, "Don't take it lightly because you happen to have a great role in this war."

She shrugs. "Sure."

* * *

 **A/N:** To clear things up, this will still delve more to her past until it leads to the prelude. Like I said, this will be AU and it won't be tackling the current storyline of Magi. Also, as I've stated before, the progression will be slow.

 **OCs everywhere:** I should have written this as a warning in the prologue but this story will be abundant of OCs so don't be surprised if you encounter different POVs aside from Seneca, Muu, and Naevius. I hope it isn't too overwhelming. I mean, most of you would prefer reading the main cast, but this was set when most of them were just starting out before they became who they are at present. In other words, I'm using a tweaked version of AoS. Putting that aside, each character has his own motivations in fudging the plot so you could say this is more of a character-driven plot. If you forget someone, I can make a list of them if you want to.

 **What is the plot?:** Hah . . . the shit that these characters do. Kidding, just kidding (partly). Well, for the most part . . . it's a coming-of-age story since it mostly revolves around Seneca and Muu's past and the origins of the Fanalis Corps, but also mishmash of subplots. Yeah, that's the only thing I can give since it's kind of hard to explain without mentioning a spoiler.

 **Muu:** It's a bit of a pet peeve of mine explaining a character directly. I mean, there's a story up there and I prefer letting the reader understand with their own perception of a character than having to explain it again sooo for now this one will be an exception. If Muu is OOC in any way, I'm sorry I wrote him that way. He's too serious and less lovable, yes. Why is he different? Do remember that before Muu was even Captain of the Fanalis Corps, he didn't have a pack with him yet. Aside from that, Myrion is too young to comprehend and share his troubles. In an omake, it is even stated he has very few friends (I doubt Lady Scher would count) and Yunan even called Muu in said omake, "Mr. Muu 'I'm on my High Horse' Alexius". The pressure of social standing and expectations, the lack of any real friends with the same age, identity crisis with the Fanalis thing, and a bit of teen angst can put a person off edge. So . . . that's my excuse.

Oops, that went longer than I expected. Anyway, thank you for those encouraging reviews and I hope the chapter wasn't too much of a snore-fest. Feel free to share your opinions, questions, and theories, if you'd like!


End file.
